
Book J^ 



PRESENTED BY | 



(HS 



POEMS 



lit 



CURREK, ELLIS, AND ACTON 
BELL. 



AUTHORS OF 

JANE eyre/' ^^WUTHERING HEIGHTS/' "TENANT 
OF WILDFELL HALL/' ETC. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
LEA AND BLANCHARD. 

1848. 






Gift 

"W. L. B hoe maker 
7 S *06 



CONTENTS 



Pilate's Wife's Dream 


Page 13 


Faith and Despondency 


20 


A Reminiscence .... 


22 


Mementos .... 


23 


Stars 


33 


The Philosopher 


35 


The Arbour .... 


38 


Home ..... 


39 


The Wife's WiU .... 


40 


Remembrance 


43 


Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas 


45 


The Wood . . , . 


47 


A Death-Scene .... 


52 


Song . , , . . 


55 


The Penitent .... 


56 


Music on Christmas Morning 


57 


Frances ..... 


58 


Anticipation .... 


68 


Stanzas ..... 


71 


Gilbert 


72 


The Prisoner . . . , 


88 


If this be all , 


92 


Life 


93 


Hope ..... 


94 


Memory ..... 


95 


The Letter . . « , 


98 


A Day-Dream ... 


101 



IV CONTENTS. 




To Cowper 

Regret .... 

To Imagination 


. Page 104 
106 
108 


The Doubter's Prayer 


. 109 


Presentiment . 


112 


How clear she shines 


. 115 


A Word to the Elect . 


116 


The Teacher's Monologue 


. 119 


Sympathy 

Past Days .... 

Passion 


122 

. 123 

124 


Preference 


. 127 


Plead for Me . 


130 


The Consolation . 


. 132 


Evening Solace 
Self-Interrogation . 


133 
135 


Lines composed in a Wood on a Win 
Stanzas .... 


dy Day 137 
. 138 


Death .... 


140 


Views of Life 


. 141 


Parting 


149 




. 150 


Appeal 

Honour's Martyr . 
The Student's Serenade 


152 

. 152 

155 


Apostasy .... 
Stanzas 


. 157 

160 


The Captive Dove 


. 161 


Winter Stores . 


162 


My Comforter 


. 165 


Self-Congratulation 


166 


The Missionary . 
The Old Stoic . 


. 169 
174 


Fluctuations 


. 175 



POEMS- 



PILATE'S WIFE'S DREAM. 

I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start 
Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall — 
The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart 
Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall ; 
Over against my bed, there shone a gleam 
Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. 

It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom ; 
How far is night advanced, and when will day 
Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom. 
And fill this void with warm, creative ray ? 
Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, 
Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread ! 

I'd call my women, but to break their sleep. 
Because my own is broken, were unjust : 
2 



14 Pilate's wife's dream. 

They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers 

steep 
Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust ; 
Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, 
Thankful that none with me its sufferings share. 

Yet, Oh, for hght ! one ray would tranquillize 
My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can ; 
I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies : 
These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, 
Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear 
Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear. 

All black — one great cloud, drawn from east to west. 

Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below ; 

Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast 

On yonder stony mount a lurid glow. 

I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears ; 

A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears. 

Dull, measured strokes of axe and hammer ring 
From street to street, not loud, but through the 

night 
Distinctly heard — and some strange spectral thing 
Is now upreared — and, fixed against the light 
Of the pale lamps ; defined upon that sky. 
It stands up Hke a column, straight and high. 

I see it all — I know the dusky sign — 
A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear 



Pilate's wife's dream. 15 

While Romans watch ; and when the dawn shall 

shine 
Pilate, to judge the victim will appear, 
Pass sentence— yield him up to crucify ; 
And on that cross the spotless Christ mJst die. 

Dreams, then, are true— for thus my vision ran ; 

Surely some oracle has been with me, 

The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan, 

To warn an unjust judge of destiny ; 

I, slumbering, heard and saw ; awake I know, 

Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe. 

I do not weep for Pilate— who could prove 
Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway 
No prayer can soften, no appeal can move ; 
Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, 
Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, 
That might stir up reprisal in the dead. 

Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds ; 
Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour' 
In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads 
A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; 
A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge 
Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. 

How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ? 

I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung; 



16 Pilate's wife's dream. 

I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim ; 
Because, while Hfe for me was bright and young, 
He robbed my youth— -he quenched my Ufe's fair 

ray- 
He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay. 

And at this hour — although I be his wife — 
He has no more of tenderness from me 
Than any other wretch of guilty life ; 
Less, for I know his household privacy — 
I see him as he is — without a screen ; 
And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien ! 

Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood — 
Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly? 
And have I not his red salute withstood ? 
Aye, — ^when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee 
In dark bereavement — in affliction sore, 
Mingling their very offerings with their gore. 

Then came he — in his eyes a serpent-smile. 

Upon his hps some false, endearing word. 

And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the 

while. 
His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword — 
And I, to see a man cause men such woe. 
Trembled with ire — I did not fear to show . 

And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought 
Jesus — whom they in mockery call their king — 



17 



To have, by this grim power, their vengeance 

wrought ; 
By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. 
Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert. 
And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt ! 

Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, 

Omens will shake his soul, hke autumn leaf; 

Could he this night's appalling vision hear. 

This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, 

Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail. 

And make even terror to their malice quail. 

Yet if I tell the dream — but let me pause. 
What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear, 
Graved on my brain — at once some unknown cause 
Has dimmed and razed the thoughts, which now 

appear 
Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene ; — 
Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. 

I suffered many things, I heard foretold 

A dreadful doom for Pilate, — lingering woes. 

In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold 

Built up a solitude of trackless snows. 

There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side, 

There he lived famished — there methought he died ; 

But not of hunger, nor by malady ; 

I saw the snow around him, stained with gore ; 



18 Pilate's wife's dream. 

I said I had no tears for such as he, 

And, lo ! my cheek is wet — mine eyes run o'er ; 

I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, 

I weep the impious deed — the blood self-spilt. 

More I recall not, yet the vision spread 

Into a world remote, an age to come — 

And still the illumined name of Jesus shed 

A light, a clearness, through the unfolding gloom- 

And still I saw that sign, which now I see, 

That cross on yonder brow of Calvary. 

What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown, 
His lineage — doctrine — mission — yet how clear, 
Is God-like goodness, in his actions shown ! 
How straight and stainless is his life's career ! 
The ray of Deity that rests on him, 
In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. 

The world advances, Greek or Roman rite 
Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay ; 
The searching soul demands a purer hght 
To guide it on its upward, onward way ; 
Ashamed of sculptured gods — ^Religion turns 
To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns. 

Our faith is rotten — all our rites defiled. 
Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man, 
With his new ordinance, so wise and mild, 
Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan 



19 



And sever from the wheat ; but will his faith 
Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ? 



I feel a firmer trust — a higher hope 
Rise in my soul — it dawns with dawning day ; 
Lo ! on the Temple's roof — on Moriah's slope 
Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray, 
Which I so wished for when shut in by night ; 
Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your hght ! 

Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun, appear ! 
Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high ! 
Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight 

clear. 
The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh. 
Oh ! to behold the truth — that sun divine. 
How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine ! 

This day, time travails with a mighty birth. 

This day. Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth. 

Ere night descends, I shall more surely know 

What guide to follow, in what path to go ; 

I wait in hope — I wait in solemn fear. 

The oracle of God — the sole — true God — to hear. 

CURRER. 



30 



FAITH AND DESPONDENCY. 

" The winter wind is loud and wild, 
Come close to me, my darling child ; 
Forsake thy books, and mateless play ; 
And, while the night is gathering grey, 
We'll talk its pensive hours away ; — 

" lerne, round our sheltered hall 
November's gusts unheeded call ; 
Not one faint breath can enter here 
Enough to wave my daughter's hair. 
And I am glad to watch the blaze 
Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays ; 
To feel her cheek, so softly pressed. 
In happy quiet on my breast. 

" But, yet, even this tranquiUity 
Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me ; 
And, in the red fire's cheerful glow, 
I think of deep glens, blocked with snow ; 
I dream of moor, and misty hill, 
Where evening closes dark and chill ; 
For, lone, among the mountains cold. 
Lie those that I have loved of old. 
And my heart aches, in hopeless pain. 
Exhausted with repinings vain, 
That I shall greet them ne'er again !" 



FAITH AND DESPONDENCY. 31 

" Father, in early infancy, 
When you were far beyond the sea, 
Such thoughts were tyrants over me ! 
I often sat, for hours together. 
Through the long nights of angry weather. 
Raised on my pillow, to descry 
The dim moon struggling in the sky ; 
Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock, 
Of rock with wave, and wave with rock ; 
So would I fearful vigil keep. 
And, all for listening, never sleep. 
But this world's life has much to dread, 
Not so, my Father, with the dead. 

" Oh ! not for them, should we despair, 
The grave is drear, but they are not there ; 
Their dust is mingled with the sod. 
Their happy souls are gone to God ! 
You told me this, and yet you sigh. 
And murmur that your friends must die. 
Ah ! my dear father, tell me why ? 
For, if your former words were true. 
How useless would such sorrow be ; 
As wise, to mourn the seed which grew 
Unnoticed on its parent tree. 
Because it fell in fertile earth. 
And sprang up to a glorious birth — 
Struck deep its root, and hfted high 
Its green boughs, in the breezy sky. 



32 A REMINISCENCE. 

" But, I'll not fear, I will not weep 
For those whose bodies rest in sleep, — 
I know there is a blessed shore. 

Opening its ports for me, and mine ; 
And, gazing Time's wide waters o'er, 

I weary for that land divine. 
Where we were born, where you and I 
Shall meet our Dearest, when we die ; 
From suffering and corruption free, 
Restored into the Deity." 

" Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child ! 

And wiser than thy sire ; 
And worldly tempests, raging wild, 

Shall strengthen thy desire — 
Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam, 

Through wind and ocean's roar. 
To reach, at last, the eternal home. 

The steadfast, changeless shore !" 

Ellis. 



A REMINISCENCE. 

Yes, thou art gone ! and never more 
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me ; 
But I may pass the old church door. 
And pace the floor that covers thee, 



MEMENTOS. 23 

May stand upon the cold, damp stone, 
And think that, frozen, Hes below 
The Hghtest heart that I have known, 
The kindest I shall ever know. 

Yet, though I cannot see thee more, 
'Tis still a comfort to have seen ; 
And though thy transient hfe is o'er, 
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been ; 

To think a soul so near divine. 

Within a form, so angel fair. 

United to a heart hke thine, 

Has gladdened once our humble sphere. 

Acton. 



MEMENTOS. 

Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves 

Of cabinets, shut up for years. 

What a strange task we've set ourselves ! 

How still the lonely room appears ! 

How strange this mass of ancient treasures. 

Mementos of past pains and pleasures ; 



34 



MEMENTOS. 



These volumes, clasped with costly stone, 

With print all faded, gilding gone ; 

These fans of leaves, from Indian trees — 

These crimson shells, from Indian seas — 

These tiny portraits, set in rings — 

Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things ; 

Keepsakes bestowed by Love on Faith, 

And worn till the receiver's death, 

Now stored with cameos, china, shells. 

In this old closet's dusty cells. 

I scarcely think, for ten long years, 
A hand has touched these relics old ; 
And, coating each, slow-formed, appears. 
The growth of green and antique mould. 

All in this house is mossing over ; 

All is unused, and dim, and damp ; 

Nor light, nor warmth, the rooms discover — 

Bereft for years of fire and lamp. 

The sun, sometimes in summer, enters 
The casements, with reviving ray ; 
But the long rains of many winters 
Moulder the very walls away. 

And outside all is ivy, clinging 
To chimney, lattice, gable grey ; 
Scarcely one little red rose springing 
Through the green moss can force its way. 



MEMENTOS. 

Unscared, the daw, and starling nestle, 
Where the tall turret rises high. 
And winds alone come near to rustle 
The thick leaves where their cradles lie. 

I sometimes think, when late at even 
I climb the stair reluctantly, 
Some shape that should be well in heaven. 
Or ill elsewhere, will pass by me. 

I fear to see the very faces, 
FamiHar thirty years ago, 
Even in the old accustomed places 
Which look so cold and gloomy now. 

I've come, to close the window, hither. 
At twilight, when the sun was down. 
And Fear, my very soul would wither. 
Lest something should be dimly shown. 

Too much the buried form resembling. 
Of her who once was mistress here ; 
Lest doubtful shade, or moonbeam trembling, 
Might take her aspect, once so dear. 

Hers was this chamber ; in her time 
It seemed to me a pleasant room. 
For then no cloud of grief or crime 
Had cursed it with a settled gloom ; 

I had not seen death's image laid 
In shroud and sheet, on yonder bed. 



556 MEMENTOS. 

Before she married, she was blest — 
Blest in her youth, blest in her worth ; 
Her mind was calm, its sunny rest 
Shone in her eyes more clear than mirth 

And when attired in rich array, 

Light, lustrous hair about her brow, 

She yonder sat — a kind of day 

Lit up — what seems so gloomy now. 

These grim oak walls, even then were grim ; 

That old carved chair, was then antique ; 

But what around looked dusk and dim 

Served as a foil to her fresh cheek ; 

Her neck, and arms, of hue so fair, 

Eyes of unclouded, smiling hght ; 

Her soft, and curled, and floating hair, 

Gems and attire, as rainbow bright. 

Reclined in yonder deep recess, 
Ofttimes she would, at evening, lie 
Watching the sun ; she seemed to bless 
With happy glance the glorious sky. 
She loved such scenes, and as she gazed. 
Her face evinced her spirit's mood ; 
Beauty or grandeur ever raised 
In her, a deep-felt gratitude. 

But of all lovely things, she loved 
A cloudless moon, on summer night ; 



MEMENTOS. 2^ 

Full oft have I impatience proved 
To see how long, her still delight 
Would find a theme in reverie. 
Out on the lawn, or where the trees 
Let in the lustre fitfully. 
As their boughs parted momently, 
To the soft, languid, summer breeze. 
Alas ! that she should e'er have flung 
Those pure, though lonely joys away- 
Deceived by false and guileful tongue. 
She gave her hand, then suffered wrong ; 
Oppressed, ill-used, she faded young. 
And died of grief by slow decay. 

Open that casket — look how bright 
Those jewels flash upon the sight ; 
The brilliants have not lost a ray 
Of lustre, since her wedding-day. 
But see — upon that pearly chain — 
How dim hes time's discolouring stain ! 
I've seen that by her daughter worn : 
For, e'er she died, a child was born : 
A child that ne'er its mother knew. 
That lone, and almost friendless grew ; 
For, ever, when its step drew nigh, 
Averted was the father's eye ; 
And then, a life impure and wild 
Made him a stranger to his child ; 
Absorbed in vice, he Httle cared 
On what she did, or how she fared. 



28 MEMENTOS. 

The love withheld, she never sought, 
She grew uncherished — learnt untaught ; 
To her the inward hfe of thought 

Full soon was open laid. 
I know not if her friendlessness 
Did sometimes on her spirit press, 

But plaint she never made. 
The book-shelves were her darhng treasure, 
She rarely seemed the time to measure 

While she could read alone. 
And she too loved the twihght wood, 
And often, in her mother's mood, 
Away to yonder hill would hie. 
Like her, to watch the setting sun, 
Or see the stars born, one by one. 

Out of the darkening sky. 
Nor would she leave that hill till night 
Trembled from pole to pole with light ; 
Even then, upon her homeward way. 
Long — long her wandering steps delayed 
To quit the sombre forest shade. 
Through which her eerie pathway lay. 
You ask if she had beauty's grace ? 
I know not — but a nobler face 

My eyes have seldom seen ; 
A keen and fine intelligence. 
And, better still, the truest sense. 

Were in her speaking mien. 
But bloom or lustre was there none, 
Only at moments, fitful shone 



MEMENTOS. 

An ardour in her eye, 
That kindled on her cheek a flush, 
Warm as a red sky's passing blush. 

And quick with energy. 
Her speech, too, was not common speech, 
No wish to shine, or aim to teach, 

Was in her words displayed : 
She still began with quiet sense, 
But oft the force of eloquence 

Came to her lips in aid ; 
Language and voice unconscious changed, 
And thoughts, in other words arranged. 

Her fervid soul transfused 
Into the hearts of those who heard, 
And transient strength and ardour stirred. 

In minds to strength unused. 
Yet in gay crowd or festal glare. 
Grave and retiring was her air ; 
'Twas seldom save with me alone. 
That fire of feeling freely shone ; 
She loved not awe's nor wonder's gaze. 
Nor even exaggerated praise. 
Nor even notice, if too keen 
The curious gazer searched her mien. 
Nature's own green expanse revealed 
The world, the pleasures, she could prize ; 
On free hill-side, in sunny field. 
In quiet spots by woods concealed. 
Grew wild and fresh her chosen joys. 
Yet Nature's feehngs deeply lay 
2* 



30 MEMENTOS. 

In that endowed and youthful frame ; 
Shrined in her heart and hid from day, 
They burned unseen with silent flame ; 
In youth's first search for mental Hght, 
She Hved but to reflect and learn, 
But soon her mind's maturer might 
For stronger task did pant and yearn ; 
And stronger task did fate assign, 
Task that a giant's strength might strain ; 
To suffer long and ne'er repine, 
Be calm in frenzy, smile at pain. 

Pale with the secret war of feeling. 
Sustained with courage, mute, yet high ; 
The wounds at which she bled, revealing 
Only by altered cheek and eye ; 

She bore in silence — but when passion 
Surged in her soul with ceaseless foam, 
The storm at last brought desolation, 
And drove her exiled from her home. 

And silent still, she straight assembled 
The wrecks of strength her soul retained ; 
For though the wasted body trembled. 
The unconquered mind, to quail, disdained. 

She crossed the sea — now lone she wanders 
By Seine's, or Rhine's or Arno's flow ; 



MEMENTOS. SI 

Fain would I know if distance renders 
Relief or comfort to her woe. 

Fain would I know if, henceforth, ever, 
These eyes shall read in hers again, 
That light of love which faded never, 
Though dimmed so long with secret pain. 

She will return, but cold and altered. 
Like all whose hopes too soon depart ; 
Like all on whom have beat, unsheltered, 
The bitter blasts that blight the heart. 

No more shall I behold her lying. 
Calm on a pillow, smoothed by me ; 
No more that spirit, worn with sighing, 
Will know the rest of infancy. 

If still the paths of lore she follow, 
'Twill be with tired and goaded will ; 
She'll only toil, the aching hollow, 
The joyless blank of life to fill. 

And oh ! full oft, quite spent and weary. 
Her hand will pause, her head decline ; 
That labour seems so hard and dreary. 
On which no ray of hope may shine. 

Thus the pale blight of time and sorrow 
Will shade with grey her soft, dark hair ; 



33 MEMENTOS. 

Then comes the day that knows no morrow, 
And death succeeds to long despair. 

So speaks experience, sage and hoary ; 
I see it plainly, know it well, 
Like one who, having read a story, 
Each incident therein can tell. 

Touch not that ring, 'twas his, the sire 

Of that forsaken child,; 
And nought his relics can inspire 

Save memories, sin-defiled. 

I, who sat by his wife's death-bed, 

I, who his daughter loved. 
Could almost curse the guilty dead, 

For woes, the guiltless proved. 

And heaven did curse — they found him laid, 
When crime for wrath was rife. 

Cold — with the suicidal blade 
Clutched in his desperate gripe. 

'Twas near that long-deserted hut. 

Which in the wood decays. 
Death's axe, self-wielded, struck his root. 

And lopped his desperate days. 

You know the spot, where three black trees 
Lift up their branches fell. 



STARS. 

And moaning, ceaseless as the seas, 
Still seem, in every passing breeze, 
The deed of blood to tell. 

They named him mad, and laid his bones 

Where holier ashes lie ; 
Yet doubt not that his spirit groans, 

In hell's eternity. 

But, lo ! night, closing o'er the earth, 

Infects our thoughts with gloom ; 
Come, let us strive to rally mirth. 
Where glows a clear and tranquil hearth 

In some more cheerful room. 

CURRER. 



STARS. 



Ah ! why, because the dazzling sun 

Restored our Earth to joy, 
Have you departed, every one, 

And left a desert sky ? 

All through the night, your glorious eyes 

Were gazing down in mine. 
And, with a full heart's thankful sighs, 

I blessed that watch divine. 



^ STARS. 

I was at peace, and drank your beams 

As they were life to me ; 
And revelled in my changeful dreams, 

Like petrel on the sea. 

Thought followed thought, star followed star, 
Through boundless regions, on ; 

While one sweet influence, near and far. 
Thrilled through, and proved us one ! 

Why did the morning dawn to break 

So great, so pure, a spell ; 
And scorch with fire, the tranquil cheek. 

Where your cool radiance fell ? 

Biood-red, he rose, and, arrow-straight. 
His fierce beams struck my brow ; 

The soul of nature, sprang, elate. 
But mine sank sad and low ! 

My Hds closed down, yet through their veil, 

I saw him, blazing, still. 
And steep in gold the misty dale. 

And flash upon the hill. 

I turned me to the pillow, then, 

To call back night, and see. 
Your worlds of solemn light, again, 

Throb widi my heart, and me ! 



THE PHILOSOPHER. 35 

It would not do— the pillow glowed, 

And glowed both roof and floor ; 
And birds sang loudly in the wood, 

And fresh winds shook the door ; 

The curtains waved, the wakened flies 
Were murmuring round my room, 

Imprisoned there, till I should rise, 
And give them leave to roam. 

Oh, stars, and dreams, and gentle night ; 

Oh, night and stars, return ! 
And hide me from the hostile light, 

That does not warm, but burn ; 

That drains the blood of suffering men ; 

Drinks tears, instead of dew ; 
Let me sleep through his blinding reign, 

And only wake with you ! 

Ellis 



THE PHILOSOPHER. 

' Enough of thought, philosopher ! 

Too long hast thou been dreaming, 
Unlightened, in this chamber drear, 

While summer's sun is beaming ! 
Space-sweeping soul, what sad refrain 
Concludes thy musings once again ? 



36 THE PHILOSOPHER. 

" Oh, for the time when I shall sleep 
Without identity, 

And never care how rain may steep, 
Or snow may cover me ! 
No promised heaven, these wild desires, 
Could all, or half fulfil ; 
No threatened hell, with quenchless fires, 
Subdue this quenchless will !" 

" So said I, and still say the same ; 

Still, to my death, will say — 
Three gods, within this httle frame. 

Are warring night and day ; 
Heaven could not hold them all, and yet 

They all are held in me ; 
And must be mine till I forget 

My present entity ! 
Oh, for the time, when in my breast 

Their struggles will be o'er ! 
Oh, for the day, when I shall rest, 

And never suffer more !" 

" I saw a spirit, standing, man, 

Where thou dost stand — an hour ago, 
And round his feet three rivers ran. 

Of equal depth, and equal flow — 
A golden stream — and one like blood ; 

And one hke sapphire seemed to be ; 
But, where they joined their triple flood 

It tumlbed in an inky sea. 



THE PHILOSOPHER. 37 

The spirit sent his dazzling gaze 

Down through that ocean's gloomy night 

Then, kindhng all, with sudden blaze. 

The glad deep sparkled wide and bright — 

White as the sun, far, far more fair 
Than its divided sources were !" 

" And even for that spirit, seer, 

I've watched and sought my life-time long ; 
Sought him in heaven, hell, earth, and air — 

An endless search, and always wrong ! 
Had I but seen his glorious eye 

Once light the clouds that wilder me, 
I ne'er had raised this coward cry 

To cease to think, and cease to be ; 
I ne'er had called oblivion blest. 

Nor, stretching eager hands to death, 
Implored to change for senseless rest 

This sentient soul, this Hving breath — 
Oh, let me die — that power and will 

Their cruel strife may close ; 
And conquered good, and conquering ill 

Be lost in one repose !" 

Ellis. 



38 



THE ARBOUR. 

I'll rest me in this sheltered bower. 
And look upon the clear blue sky- 
That smiles upon me through the trees, 
Which stand so thickly clustering by ; 

And view their green and glossy leaves, 
All gHstening in the sunshine fair ; 
And list the rustling of their boughs, 
So softly whispering through the air. 

And while my ear drinks in the sound, 
My winged soul shall fly away ; 
Reviewing long-departed years 
As one mild, beaming, autumn day ; 

And soaring on to future scenes, 
Like hills and woods, and valleys green. 
All basking in the summer's sun. 
But distant still, and dimly seen. 

Oh, list ! 'tis summer's very breath 
That gently skakes the rustling trees — 
But look ! the snow is on the ground — 
How can I think of scenes hke these ? 



HOME. 

'Tis but the frost that clears the air, 
And gives the sky that lovely blue ; 
They're smiling in a winter^ s sun, 
Those evergreens of sombre hue. 

And winter's chill is on my heart — 
How can I dream of future bliss ? 
How can my spirit soar away, 
Confined by such a chain as this ? 



Acton. 



HOME. 



How brightly glistening in the sun 

The woodland ivy plays ! 
While yonder beeches from their barks 

Reflect his silver rays. 

That sun surveys a lovely scene 

From softly smiling skies ; 
And wildly through unnumbered trees 

The wind of winter sighs : 

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, 

And now in distance dies. 
But give me back my barren hills 

Where colder breezes rise ; 



40 



Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees 
Can yield an answering swell, 

But where a wilderness of heath 
Returns the sound as well. 

For yonder garden, fair and wide, 

With groves of evergreen. 
Long winding walks, and borders trim, 

And velvet lawns between ; 

Restore to me that little spot. 

With grey walls compassed round, 

Where knotted grass neglected lies. 
And weeds usurp the ground. 

Though all around this mansion high 

Invites the foot to roam. 
And though its halls are fair within — 

Oh, give me back my Home ! 



Acton. 



THE WIFE'S WILL. 

Sit stiU — a word — a breath may break 
(As light airs stir a sleeping lake,) 
The glassy calm that soothes my woes, 
The sweet, the deep, the full repose. 



41 



leave me not ! for ever be 
Thus, more than life itself to me ! 

Yes, close beside thee, let me kneel — 
Give me thy hand that I may feel 
The friend so true — so tried — so dear, 
My heart's own chosen — indeed is near ; 
And check me not — this hour divine 
Belongs to me — is fully mine. 

'Tis thy own hearth thou sitt'st beside. 
After long absence — wandering wide ; 
'Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes, 
A promise clear of stormless skies, 
For faith and true love light the rays, 
Which shine responsive to her gaze. 

Aye, — well that single tear may fall ; 
Ten thousand might mine eyes recall, 
Which from their lids, ran blinding fast, 
In hours of grief, yet scarcely past, 
Well may'st thou speak of love to me ; 
For, oh ! most truly — I love thee ! 

Yet smile — for we are happy now. 
Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow ? 
What say'st thou ? " We must once again, 
Ere long, be severed by the main ?" 

1 knew not this-^I deemed no more. 
Thy step would err from Britain's shore. 



42 THE wife's will. 

" Duty commands ?" 'Tis true — 'tis just ; 
Thy slightest word I wholly trust, 
Nor by request, nor faintest sigh 
Would I, to turn thy purpose, try ; 
But^, William — hear my solemn vow — 
Hear and confirm ! — with thee I go. 

" Distance and suffering," did'st thou say ? 
"Danger by night, and toil by day ?" 
Oh, idle words, and vain are these ; 
Hear me ! I cross with thee the seas. 
Such risk as thou must meet and dare, 
I — thy true wife — will duly share. 

Passive, at home, I will not pine ; 
Thy toils — thy perils, shall be mine ; 
(jrrant this — and be hereafter paid 
By a warm heart's devoted aid : 
'Tis granted — with that yielding kiss, 
Entered my soul unmingled bliss. 

Thanks, William — thanks ! thy love has joy. 
Pure — undefiled with base alloy ; 
'Tis not a passion, false and bhnd, 
Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind ; 
Worthy, I feel, art thou to be 
Loved with my perfect energy. 

This evening, now, shall sweetly flow, 
Lit by our clear fire's happy glow ; 



REMEMBRANCE. 43 



And parting's peace-embittering fear, 
Is warned, our hearts to come not near ; 
For fate admits my soul's decree. 
In bliss or bale — to go with thee ! 



CURRER. 



REMEMBRANCE. 

Cold in the earth — and the deep snow piled above 

thee, 
Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave ! 
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee. 
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave ? 

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover 
Over the mountains, on that northern shore. 
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves 

cover 
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more ? 

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers, 
From those brown hills, have melted into spring : 
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers 
After such years of change and suffering ! 



44 REMEMBRANCE. 

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, 
While the world's tide is bearing me along ; 
Other desires and other hopes beset me, 
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong ! 

No later light has lightened up my heaven. 
No second mom has ever shone for me ; 
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given. 
All my life's bhss is in the grave with thee. 

But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, 
And even Despair was powerless to destroy ; 
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished. 
Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy. 

Then did I check the tears of useless passion — 
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine ; 
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten 
Down to that tomb already more than mine. 

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, 
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain ; 
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish. 
How could I seek the empty world again ? 

Ellis. 



45 



VANITAS VANITATUM, OMNIA VANITAS. 

In all we do, and hear, and see, 
Is restless Toil and Vanity. 
While yet the rolling earth abides, 
Men come and go like ocean tides ; 

And ere one generation dies, 
Another in its place shall rise ; 
That, sinking soon into the grave, 
Others succeed, like wave on wave ; 

And as they rise, they pass away. 
The sun arises every day, 
And, hastening onward to the West, 
He nightly sinks, but not to rest : 

Returning to the eastern skies, 
Again to light us, he must rise. 
And still the restless wind comes forth, 
Now blowing keenly from the North ; 

Now from the South, the East, the West, 
For ever changing, ne'er at rest. 
The fountains, gushing from the hills, 
Supply the ever-running rills ; 

The thirsty rivers drink their store, 
And bear it roUing to the shore. 



46 VANITAS VANITATUM, OMNIA VANITAS. 

But still the ocean craves for more. 
'Tis endless labour everywhere ! 
Sound cannot satisfy the ear, 

Light cannot fill the craving eye, 
Nor riches half our wants supply ; 
Pleasure but doubles future pain, 
And joy brings sorrow in her train ; 

Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth — 
What does she in this weary earth ? 
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ, 
Death comes, our labour to destroy ; 

To snatch the untasted cup away, 
For which w^e toiled so many a day. 
What, then, remains for wretched man ? 
To use life's comforts while he can, 

Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows. 
Assist his friends, forgive his foes ; 
Trust God, and keep his statutes still. 
Upright and firm, through good and ill ; 

Thankful for all that God has given. 
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven ; 
Knowing that earthly joys decay. 
But hoping through the darkest day. 



Acton. 



47 



THE WOOD. 

But two miles more, and then we rest ! 
Well, there is still an hour of day, 
And long the brightness of the West 
Will light us on our devious way ; 
Sit then, awhile, here in this wood — 
So total is the solitude. 

We safely may delay. 

These massive roots afford a seat. 
Which seems for weary travellers made. 
There rest. The air is soft and sweet 
In this sequestered forest glade. 
And there are scents of flowers around, 
The evening dew draws from the ground ; 
How soothingly they spread ! 

Yes ; I was tired, but not at heart ; 
No — ^that beats full of sweet content. 
For now I have my natural part 
Of action with adventure blent ; 
Cast forth on the wide world with thee, 
And all my once waste energy 
To weighty purpose bent. 

Yet — say'st thou, spies around us roam, 
Our aims are termed conspiracy ? 



48 THE WOOD. 

Haply, no more our English home 
An anchorage for us may be ? 
That there is risk our mutual blood 
May redden in some lonely wood 
The knife of treachery ? 

Say'st thou — that where we lodge each night. 
In each lone farm, or lonelier hall 
Of Norman Peer— ere morning light 
Suspicion must as duly fall, 
As day returns — such vigilance 
Presides and watches over France, 
Such rigour governs all ? 

I fear not, William ; dost thou fear ? 
So that the knife does not divide, 
It may be ever hovering near : 
I could not tremble at thy side. 
And strenuous love — like mine for thee — 
Is buckler strong, 'gainst treachery. 
And turns its stab aside. 

I am resolved that thou shalt learn 
To trust my strength as I trust thine ; 
I am resolved our souls shall burn, 
With equal, steady, minghng shine ; 
Part of the field is conquered now. 
Our lives in the same channel flow, 
Along the self-same line ; 



THE WOOD. 

And while no groaning storm is heard, 
Thou seem'st content it should be so, 
But soon as comes a warning word 
Of danger — straight thine anxious brow 
Bends over me a mournful shade. 
As doubting if my powers are made 
To ford the floods of woe. 

Know, then it is my spirit swells. 
And drinks, with eager joy, the air 
Of freedom — where at last it dwells, 
Chartered, a common task to share 
With thee, and then it stirs alert. 
And pants to learn what menaced hurt 
Demands for thee its care. 

Remember, I have crossed the deep. 
And stood with thee on deck, to gaze 
On waves that rose in threatening heap. 
While stagnant lay a heavy haze, 
Dimly confusing sea with sky 
And baffling, even, the pilot's eye. 
Intent to thread the maze — 

Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast, 
And find a way to steer our band 
To the one point obscure, which lost, 
Flung us, as victims, on the strand ; — 
All, elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword, 
And not a wherry could be moored 
Along the guarded land. 



50 THE WOOD. 

I feared not then — I fear not now ; 
The interest of each stirring scene 
Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow, 
In every nerve and bounding vein ; 
Ahke on turbid Channel sea, 
Or in still wood of Normandy, 
I feel as bom again. 

The rain descended that wild morn 
When, anchoring in the cove at last. 
Our band, all weary and forlorn. 
Ashore, hke wave-worn sailors, cast — 
Sought for a sheltering roof in vain, 
And scarce could scanty food obtain 
To break their morning fast. 

Thou didst thy crust with me divide. 
Thou didst thy cloak around me fold ; 
And, sitting silent by thy side, 
I ate the bread in peace untold : 
Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet 
As costly fare or princely treat 
On royal plate of gold. 

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face, 
And, rising wild, the gusty wind 
Drove on those thundering waves apace, 
Our crew so late had left behind ; 
But, spite of frozen shower and storm, 
So close to thee, my heart beat warm. 
And tranquil slept my mind. 



THE WOOD. 51 



So now— nor foot-sore nor opprest 
With walking all this August day, 
I taste a heaven in this brief rest, 
This gipsy-halt beside the way. 
England's wild flowers are fair to view, 
Like balm is England's summer dew, 
Like gold her sunset ray. 

But the white violets, growing here. 
Are sweeter than I yet have seen, 
And ne'er did dew so pure and clear 
Distil on forest mosses green. 
As now, called forth by summer heat. 
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat — 
These fragrant limes between. 

That sunset ! Look beneath the boughs. 
Over the copse — beyond the hills ; 
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows, 
And heaven with rich suffusion fills ; 
With hues where still the opal's tint, 
Its gleam of prisoned fire is blent, 

Where flame through azure thrills ! 

Depart we now — for fast will fade 
That solemn splendour of decline. 
And deep must be the after-shade 
As stars alone to-night will shine ; 
No moon is destined — pale — to gaze 
On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze, 
A day in fires decayed ! 



52 A DEATH-SCENE. 

There — hand-in-hand we tread again 
The mazes of this varying wood, 
And soon, amid a cultured plain. 
Girt in with fertile solitude. 
We shall our resting-place descry, 
Marked by one roof-tree, towering high 
Above a farm-stead rude. 

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare. 
We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease ; 
Courage will guard thy heart from fear, 
And Love give mine divinest peace : 
To-morrow brings more dangerous toil. 
And through its conflict and turmoil 
We'll pass, as God shall please. 

CURRER. 

[The preceding composition refers, doubtless, to the scenes 
acted in France during the last year of the Consulate.] 



A DEATH-SCENE. 

" O Day ! he cannot die 
When thou so fair art shining ! 
O Sun, in such a glorious sky. 
So tranquilly declining ; 



A DEATH-SCENE. 53 

He cannot leave thee now, 
While fresh west winds are blowing, 
And all around his youthful brow 
Thy cheerful light is glowing ! 

Edward, awake, awake— 
The golden evening gleams 
Warm and bright on Arden's lake — 
Arouse thee from thy dreams ! 

Beside thee, on my knee. 
My dearest friend ! I pray 
That thou, to cross the eternal sea, 
Would'st yet one hour delay : 

I hear its billows roar — 
I see them foaming high ; 
But no ghmpse of a further shore 
Has blest my straining eye. 

Beheve not what they urge 

Of Eden isles beyond ; 

Turn back, from that tempestuous surge, 

To thy own native land. 

It is not death, but pain 
That struggles in thy breast — 
Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again ; 
I cannot let thee rest !" 



54 A DEATH-SCENE. 

One long look, that sore reproved me 
For the woe I could not bear — 
One mute look of suffering moved me 
To repent my useless prayer : 

And, with sudden check, the heaving 
Of distraction passed away ; 
Not a sign of further grieving 
Stirred my soul that awful day. 

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting ; 
Sunk to peace the twilight breeze ; 
Summer dews fell softly, wetting 
Glen, and glade, and silent trees. 

Then his eyes began to weary. 
Weighed beneath a mortal sleep ; 
And their orbs grew strangely dreary, 
Clouded, even as they would weep. 

But they wept not, but they changed not, 
Never moved, and never closed ; 
Troubled still, and still they ranged not — 
Wandered not, nor yet reposed ! 

So I knew that he was dying — 
Stooped, and raised his languid head ; 
Felt no breath, and heard no sighing, 
So I knew that he was dead. 

Ellis, 



55 



SONG. 

The linnet in the rocky dells, 

The moor-lark in the air, 
The bee among the heather bells, 

That hide my lady fair : 

The wild deer browse above her breast ; 

The wild birds raise their brood ; 
And they, her smiles of love caressed, 

Have left her sohtude ! 

I ween, that when the grave's dark wall 

Did first her form retain ; 
They thought their hearts could ne'er recall 

The light of joy again. 

They thought the tide of grief would flow 
Unchecked through future years ; 

But where is all their anguish now. 
And where are all their tears ? 

Well, let them fight for honour's breath. 

Or pleasure's shade pursue — 
The dweller in the land of death 

Is changed and careless too. 

And, if their eyes should watch and weep 
Till sorrow's source were dry. 



56 THE PENITENT. 

She would not, in her tranquil sleep, 
Return a single sigh ! 

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound. 
And murmur, summer streams — 

There is no need of other sound 
To soothe my lady's dreams. 



Ellis. 



THE PENITENT. 

I MOURN with thee, and yet rejoice 
That thou shouldst sorrow so ; 

With angel choirs I join my voice 
To bless the sinner's woe. 

Though friends and kindred turn away. 
And laugh thy grief to scorn ; 

I hear the great Redeemer say, 
" Blessed are ye that mourn." 

Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange 
That earthly cords are riven : 

Man may lament the wondrous change, 
But " there is joy in heaven !" 



Acton. 



57 



MUSIC ON CHRISTMAS MORNING. 

Music I love— but never strain 
Could kindle raptures so divine, 
So grief assuage, so conquer pain. 
And rouse this pensive heart of mine — 
As that we hear on Christmas morn. 
Upon the wintry breezes borne. 

Though Darkness still her empire keep. 
And hours must pass, ere morning break ; 
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep, 
That music kindly bids us wake ; 
It calls us, with an angel's voice, 
To wake, and worship, and rejoice ; 

To greet with joy the glorious morn, 
Which angels welcomed long ago. 
When our redeeming Lord was born, 
To bring the light of Heaven below ; 
The Powers of Darkness to dispel. 
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell. 

While listening to that sacred strain, 

My raptured spirit soars on high ; 

I seem to hear those songs again 

Resounding through the open sky. 

That kindled such divine dehght. 

In those who watched their flocks by night. 



58 FRANCES. 

With them, I celebrate His birth — 
Glory to God, in highest Heaven, 
Good-will to men, and peace on Earth, 
To us a Saviour-king is given ; 
Our God is come to claim His own, 
And Satan's power is overthrown ! 

A sinless God, for sinful men. 
Descends to suffer and to bleed ; 
Hell must renounce its empire then ; 
The price is paid, the world is freed. 
And Satan's self must now confess. 
That Christ has earned a Right to bless : 

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven. 
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring : 
The captive's galling bonds are riven, 
For our Redeemer is our king ; 
And He that gave his blood for men 
Will lead us home to God again. 



Acton. 



FRANCES. 



She will not sleep, for fear of dreams, 
But, rising, quits her restless bed. 
And walks where some beclouded beams 
Of moonlight through the hall are shed. 



FRANCES. OS 

Obedient to the goad of grief, 

Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, 

In varying motion seek relief 

From the Eumenides of woe. 

Wringing her hands, at intervals — 
But long as mute as phantom dim — 
She glides along the dusky walls, 
Under the black oak rafters, grim. 

The close air of the grated tower 
Stifles a heart that scarce can beat. 
And though so late and lone the hour, 
Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet ; 

And on the pavement, spread before 
The long front of the mansion grey, 
Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, 
Which pale on grass and granite lay. 

Not long she stayed where misty moon 
And shimmering stars could on her look, 
But through the garden arch-way, soon 
Her strange and gloomy path she took. 

Some firs, coeval with the tower, 

Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head 

Unseen, beneath this sable bower. 

Rustled her dress and rapid tread. 



60 FRANCES. 

There was an alcove in that shade. 
Screening a rustic-seat and stand ; 
Weary she sat her down and laid 
Her hot brow on her burning hand. 

To sohtude and to the night, 
Some words, she now, in murmurs, said ; 
And, trickling through her fingers white, 
Some tears of misery she shed. 

" God help me in my grievous need, 
God help me, in my inward pain ; 
Which cannot ask for pity's meed, 
Which has no license to complain ; 

Which must be borne, yet who can bear, 
Hours long, days long, a constant weight — 
The yoke of absolute despair, 
A suffering wholly desolate ? 

Who can for ever crush the heart, 
Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? 
Dissemble truth with ceaseless art. 
With outward calm, mask inward strife ?" 

She waited — as for some reply ; 
The still and cloudy night gave none ; 
Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh. 
Her heavy plaint again begun. 



FRANCES. 61 

" Unloved — I love ; unwept— I weep ; 
Grief I restrain — hope I repress : 
Vain is this anguish — fixed and deep ; 
Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss. 

My love awakes no love again, 
My tears collect, and fall unfelt ; 
My sorrow touches none with pain, 
My humble hopes to nothing melt. 

For me the universe is dumb. 
Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind ; 
Life I must bound, existence sum 
In the strait limits of one mind ; 

That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell ; 
Dark— imageless — a living tomb ! 
There must I sleep, there wake and dwell 
Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom." 

Again she paused ; a moan of pain, 
A stifled sob, alone was heard ; 
Long silence followed — then again. 
Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. 

" Must it be so ? Is this my fate ? 
Can I nor struggle, nor contend ? 
And am I doomed for years to wait, 
Watching death's lingering axe descend ? 
4 



62 FRANCES. 

And when it falls, and when I die, 
What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? 
The blank of lost identity ? 
Erasure both of pain and bliss ? 

I've heard of heaven — I would believe ; 
For if this earth indeed be all, 
Who longest lives may deepest grieve, 
Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. 

Oh ! leaving disappointment here. 
Will man find hope on yonder coast ? 
Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, 
And oft in clouds is wholly lost. 

Will he hope's source of light behold, 
Fruition's spring, where doubts expire, 
And drink, in waves of living gold, 
Contentment, full, for long desire ? 

Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? 
Rest, which was weariness on earth ? 
Knowledge, which, if o'er Hfe it beamed. 
Served but to prove it void of worth ? 

Will he find love without lust's leaven, 
Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, 
To all with equal bounty given, 
In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ? 



FRANCES. 

Will he, from penal sufferings free, 
Released from shroud and wormy clod, 
All calm and glorious, rise and see 
Creation's Sire — Existence' God ? 

Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes, 
Will he behold them, fading, fly ; 
Swept from Eternity's repose, 
Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ? 

If so — endure, my weary frame ; 
And when thy anguish strikes too deep. 
And when all troubled burns life's flame, 
Think of the quiet, final sleep ; 

Think of the glorious waking-hour. 
Which will not dawn on grief and tears, 
But on a ransomed spirit's power. 
Certain, and free from mortal fears. 

Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn. 
Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, 
With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, 
But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. 

And when thy opening eyes shall see 
Mementos, on the chamber wall. 
Of one who has forgotten thee. 
Shed not the tear of acrid gail. 



64 FRANCES. 

The tear which, welling from the heart, 
Burns where its drop corrosive falls, 
And makes each nerve, in torture, start 
At feelings it too well recalls: 

When the sweet hope of being loved. 
Threw Eden sunshine on life's way ; 
When every sense and feeling proved 
Expectancy of brightest day. 

When the hand trembled to receive 
A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, 
And the heart ventured to believe, 
Another heart esteemed it dear. 

When words, half love, all tenderness, 
Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, 
When the long, sunny days of bhss. 
Only by moonlight nights were broken. 

Till drop by drop, the cup of joy 
Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, 
And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high. 
Still never dreamt the overflowing. 

It fell not with a sudden crashing, 
It poured not out like open sluice ; 
No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, 
Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. 



FRANCES. 

I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, 
My eager lips approached the brim ; 
The movement only seemed to waste it, 
It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. 

These I have drank, and they for ever 
Have poisoned hfe and love for me ; 
A draught from Sodom's lake could never 
More fiery, salt, and bitter, be. 

Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion ; 
Joy, but the desert's flying stream ; 
And, glancing back on long delusion, 
My memory grasps a hollow dream. 

Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, 
I never knew, and cannot learn. 
Nor why my lover's eye, congealing. 
Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern. 

Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, 
He careless left, and cool withdrew ; 
Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting. 
Nor even one glance of comfort threw. 

And neither word nor token sending, 
Of kindness, since the parting day, 
His course, for distant regions bending. 
Went, self-contained and calm, away. 



66 



FRANCES. 



Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, 
Which will not weaken, cannot die, 
Hasten thy work of desolation, 
And let my tortured spirit fly I 

Vain as the passing gale, my crying : 
Though lightning-struck, I must hve on ; 
I know, at heart, there is no dying 
Of love, and ruined hope, alone. 

Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour. 
Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, 
And many a storm of wildest rigour 
Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough. 

Rebellious now to blank inertion, 
My unused strength demands a task ; 
Travel, and toil, and full exertion, 
Are the last, only boon I ask. 

Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming 
Of death, and dubious life to come ? 
I see a nearer beacon gleaming 
Over dejection's sea of gloom. 

The very wildness of my sorrow 
Tells me I yet have innate force ; 
My track of life has been too narrow, 
Effort shall trace a broader course. 



FRANCES. 



67 



The world is not in yonder tower, 
Earth is not prisoned in that room, 
'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, 
I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom. 

One feeling — turned to utter anguish, 
Is not my being's only aim ; 
When, lorn and loveless, life will languish. 
But courage can revive the flame. 

He, when he left me, went a roving 
To sunny climes, beyond the sea ; 
And I, the weight of woe removing. 
Am free and fetterless as he. 

New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, 
May once more wake the wish to live ; 
Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded. 
New pictures to the mind may give. 

New forms and faces, passing ever. 
May hide the one I still retain, 
Defined, and fixed, and fading never. 
Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain. 

And we might meet — time may have changed him ; 
Chance may reveal the mystery. 
The secret influence which estranged him ; 
Love may restore him yet to me. 



68 ANTICIPATION. 

False thought — false hope — in scorn be banished ! 
I am not loved — nor loved have been ; 
Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, 
Traitors ! mislead me not again ! 

To words like yours I bid defiance, 
'Tis such my mental wreck have made ; 
Of God alone, and self-reliance, 
I ask for solace — hope for aid. 

Morn comes — and ere meridian glory 
O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile. 
Both lonely wood and mansion hoary 
I'll leave behind, full many a mile. 

CURRER. 



ANTICIPATION. 

How beautiful the earth is still, 
To thee — how full of happiness ! 
How little fraught with real ill, 
Or unreal phantoms of distress ! 
How spring can bring thee glory, yet. 
And summer win thee to forget 



ANTICIPATION. 69 

December's sullen time ! 
Why dost thou hold the treasure fast, 
Of youth's delight, when youth is past, 
And thou art near thy prime ? 

When those who were thy own compeers, 

Equals in fortune and in years, 

Have seen their morning melt in tears. 

To clouded, smileless day ; 
Blest, had they died untried and young, 
Before their hearts went wandering wrong, 
Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong, 

A weak and helpless prey ? 

" Because, I hoped while they enjoyed. 
And, by fulfilment, hope destroyed ; 
As children hope, with trustful breast, 
I waited bliss — and cherished rest. 
A thoughtful spirit taught me, soon. 
That we must long till life be done ; 
That every phase of earthly joy 
Must always fade, and always cloy : 

This I foresaw — and would not chase 

The fleeting treacheries ; 
But, with firm foot and tranquil face. 
Held backward from that tempting race. 
Gazed o'er the sands the waves efface, 

To the enduring seas — 



70 ANTICIPATION. 

There cast my anchor of desire 
Deep in unknown eternity ; 
Nor ever let my spirit tire, 
With looking for what is to be! 

It is hope's spell that glorifies, 
Like youth, to my maturer eyes, 
All Nature's milHon mysteries, 

The fearful and the fair — 
Hope soothes me in the griefs I know ; 
She lulls my pain for others' woe, 
And makes me strong to undergo 

What I am born to bear. 

Glad comforter ! will I not brave, 
Unawed, the darkness of the grave ? 
Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave — 

Sustained, my guide, by thee ? 
The more unjust seems present fate. 
The more my spirit swells elate, 
Strong, in my strength to anticipate 

Rewarding destiny!" 



Ellis. 



71 



STANZAS. 

Oh, weep not, love ! each tear that springs 

In those dear eyes of thine, 
To me a keener suffering brings, 

Than if they flowed from mine. 

And do not droop ! however drear 

The fate awaiting thee ; 
For my sake combat pain and care, 

And cherish Hfe for me ! 

I do not fear thy love will fail ; 

Thy faith is true, I know ; 
But, oh, my love ! thy strength is frail 

For such a life of woe. 

Were 't not for this, I well could trace 
(Though banished long from thee,) 

Life's rugged path, and boldly face 
The storms that threatened me. 

Fear not for me — I've steeled my mind 

Sorrow and strife to greet ; 
Joy with my love I leave behind. 

Care with my friends I meet. 



73 GILBERT. 

A mother's sad reproachful eye, 
A father's scowling brow — 

But he may frown and she may sigh 
I will not break my vow ! 

I love my mother, I revere 
My sire, but fear not me — 

Believe that Death alone can tear 
This faithful heart from thee. 



Acton. 



GILBERT. 
I. 

THE GARDEN. 

Above the city hung the moon. 

Right o'er a plot of ground 
Where flow^ers and orchard-trees were fenced 

With lofty walls around : 
'Twas Gilbert's garden — there, to-night 

Awhile he walked alone ; 
And, tired with sedentary toil, 

Mused where the moonhght shone. 



GILBERT. 

This garden, in a city-heart, 

Lay still as houseless wild. 
Though many-windowed mansion fronts 

Were round it closely piled ; 
But thick their walls, and those within 

Lived Hves by noise unstirred ; 
Like wafting of an angel's wing. 

Time's flight by them was heard. 

Some soft piano-notes alone 

Were sweet as faintly given, 
Where ladies, doubtless, cheered the hearth 

With song, that w^inter-even. 
The city's many-mingled sounds 

Rose like the hum of ocean ; 
They rather lulled the heart than roused 

Its pulse to faster motion. 

Gilbert has paced the single walk 

An hour, yet is not weary ; 
And, though it be a winter night. 

He feels nor cold nor dreary. 
The prime of Hfe is in his veins. 

And sends his blood fast flowing. 
And Fancy's fervour warms the thoughts 

Now in his bosom glowing. 

Those thoughts recur to early love. 
Or what he love would name, 



73 



74 GILBERT. 

Though haply Gilbert's secret deeds 

Might other title claim. 
Such theme not oft his mind absorbs, 

He to the world clings fast, 
And too much for the present lives. 

To linger o'er the past. 

But now the evening's deep repose 

Has glided to his soul ; 
That moonlight falls on Memory, 

And shows her fading scroll. 
One name appears in every line 

The gentle rays shine o'er, 
And still he smiles and still repeats 

That one name — Elinor. 

There is no sorrow in his smile. 

No kindness in his tone ; 
The triumph of a selfish heart 

Speaks coldly there alone ; 
He says : " She loved me more than life 

And truly it was sweet 
To see so fair a woman kneel, 

In bondage, at my feet. 

There was a sort of quiet bliss 

To be so deeply loved, 
To gaze on trembling eagerness 

And sit myself unmoved. 



GILBERT. 

And when it pleased my pride to grant, 

At last, some rare caress. 
To feel the fever of that hand 

My fingers deigned to press. 

'Twas sweet to see her strive to hide 

What every glance revealed ; 
Endowed, the while, with despot-might 

Her destiny to wield. 
I knew myself no perfect man, 

Nor, as she deemed, divine ; 
I knew that I was glorious — but 

By her reflected shine ; 

Her youth, her native energy, 

Her powers new-born and fresh, 
'Twas these with Godhead sanctified 

My sensual frame of flesh. 
Yet, like a god did I descend 

At last to meet her love ; 
And, like a god, I then withdrew 

To my own heaven above. 

And never more could she invoke 
My presence to her sphere ; 

No prayer, no plaint, no cry of hers 
Could win my awful ear. 

I knew her blinded constancy 
Would ne'er my deeds betray. 



75 



76 GILBERT. 

And, calm in conscience, whole in heart, 
I went my tranquil way. 

Yet, sometimes, I still feel a wish, 

The fond and flattering pain 
Of passion's anguish to create, 

In her young breast again. 
Bright was the lustre of her eyes. 

When they caught fire from mine ; 
If I had power — this very hour, 

Again I 'd hght their shine. 

But where she is, or how she hves, 

I have no clue to know : 
I 've heard she long my absence pined, 

And left her home in woe. 
But busied, then, in gathering gold. 

As I am busied now, 
I could not turn from such pursuit, 

To weep a broken vow. 

Nor could I give to fatal risk 

The fame I ever prized ; 
Even now, I fear, that precious fame 

Is too much compromised." 
An inward trouble dims his eye. 

Some riddle he would solve ; 
Some method to unloose a knot, 

His anxious thoughts revolve. 



GILBERT. 77 

He, pensive, leans against a tree, 

A leafy evergreen, 
The boughs, the moonlight, intercept. 

And hide him like a screen ; 
He starts — the tree shakes with his tremor, 

Yet nothing near him pass'd. 
He hurries up the garden alley, 

In strangely sudden haste. 

With shaking hand, he lifts the latchet, 

Steps o'er the threshold stone ; 
The heavy door slips from his fingers. 

It shuts, and he is gone. 
What touched, transfixed, appalled, his soul ? 

A nervous thought, no more ; 
'Twill sink Hke stone in placid pool. 

And calm close smoothly o'er. 



II. 

THE PARLOUR. 

Warm is the parlour atmosphere, 

Serene the lamp's soft light ; 
The vivid embers, red and clear, 

Proclaim a frosty night. 
Books, varied, on the table lie. 

Three children o'er them bend. 
And all, with curious, eager eye, 

The turning leaf attend. 
4* 



78 GILBERT. 

Picture and tale alternately 

Their simple hearts delight, 
And interest deep, and tempered glee, 

Illume their aspects bright ; 
The parents, from their fireside place. 

Behold that pleasant scene, 
And joy is on the mother's face. 

Pride, in the father's mien. 

As Gilbert sees his blooming wife. 

Beholds his children fair, 
No thought has he of transient strife, 

Or past, though piercing fear. 
The voice of happy infancy 

Lisps sweetly in his ear. 
His wife, with pleased and peaceful eye, 

Sits, kindly smiling, near. 

The fire glows on her silken dress. 

And shows its ample grace. 
And warmly tints each hazel tress. 

Curled soft around her face. 
The beauty that in youth he wooed, 

Is beauty still, unfaded. 
The brow of ever placid mood 

No churlish grief has shaded. 

Prosperity, in Gilbert's home, 

Abides, the guest of years ; 
There Want or Discord never come, 

And seldom Toil or Tears. 



GILBERT. 79 

The carpets bear the peaceful print 

Of comfort's velvet tread, 
And golden gleams from plenty senty 

In every nook are shed. 

The very silken spaniel seems 

Of quiet ease to tell, 
As near its mistress' feet it dreams, 

Sunk in a cushion's swell ; 
And smiles seem native to the eyes 

Of those sweet children, three ; 
They have but looked on tranquil skies. 

And know not misery. 

Alas ! that misery should come 

In such an hour as this ; 
Why could she not so calm a home 

A little longer miss ? 
But she is now within the door, 

Her steps advancing glide ; 
Her sullen shade has crossed the floor. 

She stands at Gilbert's side. 

She lays her hand upon his heart. 

It bounds with agony ; 
His fireside chair shakes with the start 

That shook the garden tree. 
His wife towards the children looks. 

She does not mark his mien ; 
The children, bendmg o'er their books. 

His terror have not seen. 



80 GILBERT. 

In his own home, by his own hearth, 

He sits in solitude, 
And circled round with light and mirth. 

Cold horror chills his blood. 
His mind would hold with desperate clutch 

The scene that round him lies ; 
No — changed, as by some wizard's touch, 

The present prospect flies. 

A tumult vague — a viewless strife 

His futile struggles crush ; 
'Twixt him and his, an unknown life 

And unknown feelings rush. 
He sees — ^but scarce can language paint 

The tissue Fancy weaves ; 
For words oft give but echo faint 

Of thoughts the mind conceives. 

Noise, tumult strange, and darkness dim, 

Efface both light and quiet ; 
No shape is in those shadows grim. 

No voice in that wild riot. 
Sustained and strong, a wondrous blast 

Above and round him blows ; 
A greenish gloom, dense overcast. 

Each moment denser grows. 

He nothing knows — nor clearly sees. 
Resistance checks his breath, 

The high, impetuous, ceaseless breeze 
Blows on him, cold as death. 



GILBERT. 81 

And still the undulating gloom 
Mocks sight with formless motion ; 

Was such sensation Jonah's doom, 
Gulphed in the depths of ocean ? 

Streaking the air, the nameless vision, 

Fast-driven, deep-sounding, flows ; 
Oh ! whence its source, and what its mission ? 

How will its terrors close ? 
T-ong-sweeping, rushing, vast and void. 

The Universe it swallows ; 
And still the dark, devouring tide, 

A Typhoon tempest follows. 

More slowly it rolls ; its furious race 

Sinks to a solemn gliding ; 
The stunning roar, the wind's wild chase. 

To stillness are subsiding. 
And, slowly borne along, a form 

The shapeless chaos varies ; 
Poised in the eddy to the ^orm, 

Before the eye it tarries. 

A woman drowned — sunk in the deep. 

On a long wave reclining ; 
The circling waters' crystal sweep, 

Like glass, her shape enshrining ; 
Her pale dead face, to Gilbert turned, 

Seems as in sleep reposing ; 
A feeble light, now first discerned, 

The features well disclosing. 



82 



GILBERT. 



No effort from the haunted air 

The ghastly scene could banish ; 
That hovering wave, arrested there, 

Rolled — throbbed — but did not vanish. 
If Gilbert upward turned his gaze, 

He saw the ocean-shadow ; 
If he looked down, the endless seas 

Lay green as summer meadow. 

And straight before, the pale corpse lay. 

Upborne by air or billow, 
So near, he could have touched the spray 

That churned around its pillow. 
The hollow anguish of the face 

Had moved a fiend to sorrow ; 
Not Death's fixed calm could raze the trace 

Of suffering'^s deep-worn furrow. 

All moved ; a strong returning blast. 

The mass of waters raising. 
Bore wave and passive carcase past. 

While Gilbert yet was gazing. 
Deep in her isle-conceiving womb. 

It seemed the Ocean thundered. 
And soon, by realms of rushing gloom> 

Were seer and phantom sundered. 

Then swept some timbers from a wreck. 

On following surges riding ; 
Then sea-weed, in the turbid rack 

Uptorn, went slowly gliding. 



GILBERT. 83 

The horrid shade, by slow degrees, 

A beam of light defeated, 
And then the roar of raving seas, 

Fast, far, and faint, retreated. 

And all was gone — gone like a mist, 

Corse, billows, tempest, wreck ; 
Three children close to Gilbert prest 

And clung around his neck. 
Good night ! good night ! the prattlers said 

And kissed their father's cheek ; 
'Twas now the hour their quiet bed 

And placid rest to seek. 

The mother with her offspring goes 

To hear their evening prayer ; 
She nought of Gilbert's vision knows, 

And nought of his despair. 
Yet, pitying God, abridge the time 

Of anguish, now his fate ! 
Though, haply, great has been his crime 

Thy mercy, too, is great. 

Gilbert, at length, uplifts his head. 

Bent for some moments low. 
And there is neither grief nor dread 

Upon his subtle brow. 
For well can he his feehngs task, 

And well his looks command ; 
His features well his heart can mask, 

With smiles and smoothness bland 



84 GILBERT. 

Gilbert has reasoned with his mind — 

He says 'twas all a dream ; 
He strives his inward si^ht to blind 

Against truth's inward beam. 
He pitied not that shadowy thing. 

When it was flesh and blood ; 
Nor now can pity's balmy spring 

Refresh his arid mood. 

"And if that dream has spoken truth," 

Thus musingly he says ; 
" If EHnor be dead, in sooth. 

Such chance the shock repays : 
A net was woven round my feet, 

I scarce could further go, 
Ere Shame had forced a fast retreat, 

Dishonour brought me low. 

"Conceal her, then, deep, silent Sea, 

Give her a secret grave 1 
She sleeps in peace, and I am free. 

No longer Terror's slave : 
And homage still, from all the world. 

Shall greet my spotless name, 
Since surges break and waves are curled 

Above its threatened shame." 



GILBERT. 85 

III. 

THE WELCOME HOME. 

Above the city hangs the moon, 

Some clouds are boding rain, 
Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone, 

To-night comes home again. 
Ten years have passed above his head, 

Each year has brought him gain ; 
His prosperous Hfe has smoothly sped, 

Without or tear or stain. 

'Tis somewhat late — the city clocks 

Twelve deep vibrations toll. 
As Gilbert at the portal knocks. 

Which is his journey's goal. 
The street is still and desolate, 

The moon hid by a cloud ; 
Gilbert, impatient will not wait, — 

His second knock peals loud. 

The clocks are hushed ; there's not a light 

In any window nigh. 
And not a single planet bright 

Looks from the clouded sky ; 
The air is raw, the rain descends, 

A bitter north-wind blows ; 
His cloak the traveller scarce defends — 

Will not the door unclose ? 
5 



86 GILBERT. 

He knocks the third time, and the last ; 

His summons now they hear, 
Within, a footstep, hurrying fast, 

Is heard approaching near. 
The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain 

Falls to the floor of stone ; 
And Gilbert to his heart will strain 

His wife and children soon. 

The hand that lifts the latchet, holds 

A candle to his sight, 
And Gilbert, on the step, beholds 

A woman, clad in white. 
Lo ! water from her dripping dress 

Runs on the streaming floor ; 
From every dark and clinging tress, 

The drops incessant pour. 

There's none but her to welcome him ; 

She holds the candle high. 
And, motionless in form and limb. 

Stands cold and silent nigh ; 
There's sand and sea-weed on her robe. 

Here hollow eyes are blind ; 
No pulse in such a frame can throb. 

No life is there defined. 

Gilbert turned ashy-white, but still 
His lips vouchsafed no cry ; 

He spurred his strength and master-will 
To pass the figure by, — 



GILBERT. 87 

But, moving slow, it faced him straight, 

It would not flinch nor quail : 
Then first did Gilbert's strength abate. 

His stony firmness quail. 

He sank upon his knees and prayed ; 

The shape stood rigid there ; 
He called aloud for human aid, 

No human aid was near. 
An accent strange did thus repeat 

Heaven's stern but just decree : 
" The measure thou to her didst mete, 

To thee shall measured be !" 

Gilbert sprang from his bended knees, 

By the pale spectre pushed. 
And, wild as one whom demons seize. 

Up the hall-staircase rushed ; 
Entered his chamber — near the bed 

Sheathed steel and fire-arms hung — 
Impelled by maniac purpose dread. 

He chose those stores among. 

Across his throat, a keen-edged knife 

With vigorous hand he drew ; 
The wound was wide — his outraged life 

Rushed rash and redly through. 
And thus died, by a shameful death, ' 

A wise and worldly man. 
Who never drew but selfish breath 



Since first his hfe began. 



CURRER. 



88 
THE PRISONER. 

A FRAGMENT. 

In the dungeon-crypts, idly did I stray, 
Reckless of the lives wasting there away ; 
" Draw the ponderous bars ! open, Warder stern !" 
He dared not say me nay — the hinges harshly turn. 

" Our guests are darkly lodged," I whisper'd, gazing 

through 
The vault, whose grated eye showed heaven more 

grey than blue ; 
(This was when glad spring laughed in awaking 

pride ;) 
" Aye, darkly lodged enough !" returned my sullen 

guide. 

Then, God forgive my youth ; forgive my careless 

tongue ; 
I scoffed, as the chill chains on the damp flag-stones 

rung: 
" Confined in triple walls, art thou so much to fear. 
That we must bind thee down and clench thy fetters 

here ?" 

The captive raised her face, it was as soft and mild 
As sculptured marble saint, or slumbering unwean'd 
child ; 



THE PRISONER. OU 

It was so soft and mild, it was so sweet and fair, 
Pain could not trace a line, nor grief a shadow 
there ! 

The captive raised her hand and pressed it to her 
brow ; 

"I have been struck," she said, "and I am suffer- 
ing now ; 

Yet these are little worth, your bolts and irons 
strong. 

And, were they forged in steel, they could not hold 
me long." 

Hoarse laughed the jailor grim : " Shall I be won to 

hear ; 
Dost think, fond, dreaming wretch, that / shall 

grant thy prayer ? 
Or, better still, wilt melt my master's heart with 

groans ? 
Ah ! sooner might the sun thaw down these granite 

stones. 

"My master's voice is low, his aspect bland and kind. 
But hard as hardest flint, the soul that lurks behind ; 
And I am rough and rude, yet not more rough to see 
Than is the hidden ghost that has its home in me." 

About her lips there played a smile of almost scorn, 
" My friend," she gently said, " you have not heard 
me mourn ; 



90 



THE PRISONER. 



When you my kindred's lives, my lost life, can re- 
store. 

Then may I weep and sue, — but never, friend, 
before ! 

Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear 
Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair ; 
A messenger of Hope, comes every night to me, 
And offers for short life, eternal liberty. 

He comes with western winds, with evening's 

wandering airs. 
With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the 

thickest stars. 
Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, 
And visions rise, and change, that kill me with 

desire. 

Desire for nothing known in my maturer years. 
When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future 

tears. 
When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, 
I knew not whence they came, from sun, or thunder 

storm. 

But, first, a hush of peace — a soundless calm 

descends ; 
The struggle of distress, and fierce impatience ends. 
Mute music soothes my breast, unuttered harmony, 
That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me. 



THE PRISONER. 91 

Then dawns the Invisible ; the Unseen its truth 

reveals ; 
My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels : 
Its wings are almost free — its home, its harbour 

found, 
Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final 

bound. 

Oh, dreadful is the check — intense the agony — 
When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins 

to see ; 
When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think 

again, 
The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the 

chain. 

Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less, 
The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will 

bless ; 
And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly 

shine. 
If it but herald death, the vision is divine !" 

She ceased to speak, and we, unanswering, turned 

to go— 
We had no further power to work the captive woe ; 
Her cheek, her gleaming eye, declared that man had 

given 
A sentence, unapproved, and overruled by Heaven. 

Ellis. 



02 



IF THIS BE ALL. 

God ! if this indeed be ail 
Tliat Life can sliow to me ; 

If on my aching brow may fall 
No freshening dew from Thee, — 

If with no brighter light than this 
The lamp of hope may glow, 

And I may only dream of bliss. 
And wake to weary woe ; 

If friendship's solace must decay, 
When other joys are gone, 

And love must keep so far away. 
While I go wandering on, — 

Wandering and toiling without gain, 

The slave of others' will. 
With constant care, and frequent pain, 

Despised, forgotten still ; 

Grieving to look on vice and sin. 

Yet powerless to quell 
The silent current from within. 

The outward torrent's swell : 



LIFE. 93 



While all the good I would impart, 
The feelings I would share, 

Are driven backward to my heart. 
And turned to wormwood, there ; 

If clouds must ever keep from sight 

The glories of the Sun, 
And I must suffer winter's blight, 

Ere summer is begun ; 

If Life must be so full of care. 
Then call me soon to Thee ; 

Or give me strength enough to bear 
My load of misery. 



Acton. 



LIFE. 



Life, beheve, is not a dream 

So dark as sages say ; 
Oft a little morning rain 

Foretells a pleasant day. 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, 

But these are transient all ; 
If the shower will make the roses bloom, 

O why lament its fall ? 



94 HOPE. 

Rapidly, merrily, 
Life's sunny hours flit by, 

Gratefully, cheerily. 
Enjoy them as they fly ! 

What though Death at times steps in, 

And calls our Best away ? 
What though sorrow seems to win, 

O'er hope, a heavy sway ? 
Yet hope again elastic springs, 

Unconquered, though she fell ; 
Still buoyant are her golden wings. 
Still strong to bear us well. 
Manfully, fearlessly, 
The day of trial bear. 

For gloriously, victoriously, 
Can courage quell despair ! 



CURRER. 



HOPE. 



Hope was but a timid friend ; 

She sat without the grated den, 
Watching how my fate would tend, 

Even as selfish-hearted men. 



MEMORY, ! 

She was cruel in her fear ; 

Through the bars, one dreary day, 
I looked out to see her there. 

And she turned her face away ! 

Like a false guard, false watch keeping, 
Still, in strife, she whispered peace ; 

She would sing while I was weeping ; 
If I listened, she would cease. 

False she was, and unrelenting ; 

When my last joys strewed the ground. 
Even Sorrow saw, repenting. 

Those sad relics scattered round ; 

Hope, whose whisper would have given 
Balm to all my phrenzied pain, 

Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven, 
Went, and ne'er returned again ! 

Ellis. 



MEMORY. 



Brightly the sun of summer shone. 
Green fields and waving woods upon, 
And soft winds wandered by ; 



96 MEMORY. 

Above, a sky of purest blue, 
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue, 
Allured the gazer's eye. 

But what were all these charms to me, 
When one sweet breath of memory 

Came gently wafting by ? 
I closed my eyes against the day, 
And called my willing soul away, 

From earth, and air, and sky ; 

That I might simply fancy there 
One httle flower — a primrose fair, 

Just opening into sight ; 
As in the days of infancy. 
An opening primrose seemed to me 

A source of strange dehght. 

Sweet Memory ! ever smile on me ; 
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee ; 

Oh, still thy tribute bring ! 
Still make the golden crocus shine 
Among the flowers the most divine, 

The glory of the spring. 

Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell ; 
And hover round the shght blue bell. 
My childhood's darling flower. 



MEMORY. 97 

Smile on the little daisy still, 
The buttercup's bright goblet fill - 

With all thy former power. 

For ever hang thy dreamy spell 
Round mountain star and heather bell 

And do not pass away 
From sparkhng frost, or wreathed snow, 
And whisper when the wild winds blow, 

Or rippling waters play. 

Is childhood, then, so all-divine ? 
Or Memory, is the glory thine. 

That haloes thus the past ? 
Not all divine ; its pangs of grief, 
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,) 

Are bitter while they last. 

Nor is the glory all thine own. 
For on our earliest joys alone 

That holy light is cast. 
With such a ray no spell of thine 
Can make our later pleasures shine. 

Though long ago they passed. 

Acton. 



98 



THE LETTER. 

What is she writing? Watch her now, 

How fast her fingers move ! 
How eagerly her youthful brow 

Is bent in thought above ! 
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light, 

She puts them quick aside, 
Nor knows, that band of crystals bright, 

Her hasty touch untied. 
It slips adown her silken dress, 

Falls glittering at her feet ; 
Unmarked it falls, for she no less 

Pursues her labour sweet. 

The very loveliest hour that shines. 

Is in that deep blue sky ; 
The golden sun of June declines. 

It has not caught her eye. 
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate. 

The white road, far away, 
In vain for her light footsteps wait. 

She comes not forth to-day. 
There is an open door of glass 

Close by that lady's chair, 
From thence, to slopes of mossy grass. 

Descends a marble stair. 






THE LETTER. 99 

Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom 

Around the threshold grow ; 
Their leaves and blossoms shade the room, 

From that sun's deepening glow. 
Why does she not a moment glance 

Between the clustering flowers, 
And mark in heaven the radiant dance 

Of evening's rosy hours ? 
O look again ! Still fixed her eye, 

UnsmiHng, earnest, still. 
And fast her pen and fingers fly. 

Urged by her eager will. 

Her soul is in th' absorbing task ; 

To whom, then, doth she write ? 
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask 

Her own eyes' serious light ; 
Where do they turn, as now her pen 

Hangs o'er th' unfinished line ? 
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then 

Did in their dark spheres shine ? 
The summer-parlour looks so dark. 

When from that sky you turn. 
And from th' expanse of that green park 

You scarce may aught discern. 

Yet o'er the piles of porcelain rare. 
O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase, 

Sloped, as if leaning on the air. 
One picture meets the gaze. 



100 THE LETTER. 

'Tis there she turns ; you may not see 

Distinct, what form defines 
The clouded mass of mystery 

Yon broad gold frame confines. 
But look again ; inured to shade 

Your eyes now faintly trace 
A stalwart form, a massive head, 

A firm, determined face. 

Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek, 

A brow, high, broad and white. 
Where every furrow seems to speak 

Of mind and moral might. 
Is that her god ? I cannot tell ; 

Her eye a moment met 
Th' impending picture, then it fell 

Darkened and dimmed and wet. 
A moment more, her task is done. 

And sealed the letter lies ; 
And now, towards the setting sun 

She turns her tearful eyes. 

Those tears flow over, wonder not, 

For by the inscription, see 
In what a strange and distant spot 

Her heart of hearts must be ! 
Three seas and many a league of land 

That letter must pass o'er. 
E'er read by him to whose loved hand 

'Tis sent from England's shore. 



A DAY-DREAM. 101 



Remote colonial wilds detain 

Her husband, loved though stern ; 

She 'mid that smiling Enghsh scene, 
Weeps for his wished return. 



CURRER. 



A DAY-DREAM. 

On a sunny brae, alone I lay 

One summer afternoon ; 
It was the marriage-time of May 

With her young lover June. 

From her mother's heart, seemed loath to part 

That queen of bridal charms. 
But her father smiled on the fairest child 

He ever held in his arms. 

The trees did wave their plumy crests, 

The glad birds caroled clear ; 
And I, of all the wedding guests, 

Was only sullen there ! 

There was not one, but wished to shun 

My aspect void of cheer ; 
The very grey rocks, looking on. 

Asked, " What do you do here ?" 

5* 



102 A DAY-DREAM. 

And I could utter no reply ; 

In sooth, I did not know 
Why I had brought a clouded eye 

To greet the general glow. 

So, resting on a healhy bank, 

I took my heart to me ; 
And we together sadly sank 

Into a reverie. 

We thought, " When winter comes again, 
Where will these bright things be ? 

All vanished, like a vision vain, 
An unreal mockery ! 

The birds that now so blithely sing. 

Through deserts, frozen dry, 
Poor spectres of the perished spring, 

In famished troops, will fly. 

And why should we be glad at all ? 

The leaf is hardly green, 
Before a token of its fall 

Is on the surface seen !" 

Now, whether it were really so, 

I never could be sure ; 
But as in fit of peevish woe, 

I stretched me on the moor. 



A DAY-DREAM. 103 

A thousand thousand gleaming fires 

Seemed kindling in the air ; 
A thousand thousand silvery lyres 

Resound far and near : 

Methought, the very breath I breathed 

Was full of sparks divine, 
And all my heather-couch was wreathed 

By that celestial shine ! 

And, while the wide earth echoing rung 

To their strange minstrelsy, 
The little glittering spirits sung, 

Or seemed to sing, to me : 

" O mortal ! mortal ! let them die ; 

Let time and tears destroy, 
That we may overflow the sky 

With universal joy ! 

Let grief distract the sufferer's breast, 

And night obscure his way ; 
They hasten him to endless rest. 

And everlasting day. 

To thee the world is like a tomb, 

A desert's naked shore ; 
To us, in unimagined bloom. 

It brightens more and more ! 



104 TO COWPER. 

And, could we lift the veil, and give 
One brief glimpse to thine eye, 

Thou wouldst rejoice for those that live, 
Because they live to die." 

The music ceased ; the noonday dream, 
Like dream of night, withdrew ; 

But Fancy, still, will sometimes deem 
Her fond creation true. 



Ellis. 



TO COWPER. 

Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard ; 

And oft, in childhood's years, 
I've read them o'er and o'er again. 

With flood of silent tears. 

The language of my inmost heart, 

I traced in every line ; 
My sins, my sorrows, hopes, and fears, 

Were there — and only mine. 

All for myself the sigh would swell. 
The tear of anguish start ; 



TO COWPER. 105 

I little knew what wilder woe 
Had filled the Poet's heart. 

I did not know the nights of gloom, 

The days of misery ; 
The long, long years of dark despair, 

That crushed and tortured thee. 

But, they are gone ; from earth at length 

Thy gentle soul is pass'd. 
And in the bosom of its God 

Has found its home at last. 

It must be so, if God is love. 

And answers fervent prayer ; 
Then surely thou shalt dwell on high. 

And I may meet thee there. 

Is he the source of every good, 

The spring of purity ? 
Then in thine hours of deepest woe. 

Thy God was still with thee. 

How else, when every hope was fled, 

Couldst thou so fondly cling 
To holy things and holy men ? 

And how so sweetly sing. 

Of things that God alone could teach ? 
And whence that purity, 



106 REGRET. 

That hatred of all sinful ways — 
That gentle charity ? 

Are these the symptonis of a heart 
Of heavenly grace bereft : 

For ever banished from its God, 
To Satan's fury left ? 

Yet, should thy darkest fears be true, 

If Heaven be so severe, 
That such a soul as thine is lost, — 

Oh ! how shall / appear ? 



Acton. 



REGRET. 



Long ago I wished to leave 
"The house where I was born ;" 
Long ago I used to grieve, 
My home seemed so forlorn. 
In other years, its silent rooms 
Were filled with haunting fears ; 
Now, their very memory comes 
O'ercharged with tender tears, 



REGRET. 107 

Life and marriage I have known, 

Things once deemed so bright ; 

Now, how utterly is flown 

Every ray of hght ! 

'Mid the unknown sea of life 

I no blest isle have found ; 

At last, through all its wild wave's strife, 

My bark is homeward bound. 

Farewell, dark and rolling deep ! 

Farewell, foreign shore ! 

Open, in unclouded sweep. 

Thou glorious realm before ! 

Yet, though I had safely pass'd 

That weary, vexed main. 

One loved voice, through surge and blast, 

Could call me back again. 

Though the soul's bright morning rose 

O'er Paradise for me, 

WilHam ! even from Heaven's repose 

I'd turn, invoked by thee ! 

Storm nor surge should e'er arrest 

My soul, exulting then : 

-111 my heaven was once thy breast, 

Would it were mine again ! 

CURRER. 



108 



TO IMAGINATION. 

When weary with the long day's care, 
And earthly change from pain to pain, 

And lost and ready to despair. 

Thy kind voice calls me back again : 

Oh, my true friend ! I am not lone, 

While thou canst speak with such a tone ! 

So hopeless is the world without ; 

The world within I doubly prize ; 
Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt, 

And cold suspicion never rise ; 
Where thou, and I, and Liberty, 
Have undisputed sovereignty. 

What matters it, that, all around. 
Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie, 

If but within our bosom's bound 
We hold a bright, untroubled sky. 

Warm with ten thousand mingled rays 

Of suns that know no winter days ? 

Reason, indeed, may oft complain 

For Nature's sad reahty, 
And tell the suffering heart, how vain 

Its cherished dreams must always be ; 
And Truth may rudely trample down 
The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown : 



THE doubter's PRAYER. 109 

But, thou art ever there, to bring 

The hovering vision back, and breathe 

New glories o'er the bhghted spring, 
And call a lovelier Life and Death, 

And whisper, with a voice divine. 

Of real worlds, as bright as thine. 

I trust not to thy phantom bliss. 

Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour, 
With never-faihng thankfulness, 

I welcome thee, Benignant Power ; 
Sure solacer of human cares, 
And sweeter hope, when hope despairs ! 

Ellis. 



THE DOUBTER'S PRAYER. 

Eternal Power, of earth and air ! 
Unseen, yet seen in all around, 
Remote, but dwelling everywhere. 
Though silent, heard in every sound. 

If e'er thine ear in mercy bent. 
When wretched mortals cried to Thee, 
And if, indeed. Thy Son was sent. 
To save lost sinners such as me : 
6 



110 THE doubter's PRAYER. 

Then hear me now, while, kneehng here, 
I lift to thee my heart and eye, 
And all my soul ascends in prayer, 

give me — give me Faith I I cry. 

Without some glimmering in my heart, 

1 could not raise this fervent prayer ; 
But, oh ! a stronger Hght impart, 
And in Thy mercy fix it there. 

While Faith is with me, I am blest ; 
It turns my darkest night to day ; 
But while I clasp it to my breast, 
I often feel it slide away. 

Then, cold and dark, my spirit sinks, 
To see my light of Hfe depart ; 
And every fiend of Hell, methinks, 
Enjoys the anguish of my heart. 

What shall I do, if all my love. 
My hopes, my toil, are cast away. 
And if there be no God above. 
To hear and bless me when I pray ? 

If this be vain delusion all, 
If death be an eternal sleep. 
And none can hear my secret call, 
Or see the silent tears I weep ! 



THE doubter's PRAYER. Ill 

Oh, help me, God ! For thou alone 
Canst my distracted soul relieve ; 
Forsake it not : it is thine own, 
Though weak, yet longing to believe. 

Oh, drive these cruel doubts away; 
And make me know, that Thou art God ! 
A faith, that shines by night and day, 
Will lighten every earthly load. 

If I beheve that Jesus died, 
And, waking, rose to reign above ; 
Then surely Sorrow, Sin, and Pride, 
Must yield to Peace, and Hope, and Love. 

And all the blessed words He said 
Will strength and holy joy impart : 
A shield of safety o'er my head, 
A spring of comfort in my heart. 

Acton. 



112 



PRESENTLMENT. 

" Sister, you've sat there all the day, 

Gome to the hearth awhile ; 
The wind so wildly sweeps away. 

The clouds so darkly pile. 
That open book has lain, unread, 

For hours upon your knee ; 
You've never smiled nor turned your head 

What can you, sister, see ?" 

" Come hither, Jane, look down the field ; 

How dense a mist creeps on ! 
The path, the hedge, are both concealed, 

Ev'n the white gate is gone ; 
No landscape through the fog I trace. 

No hill with pastures green ; 
All featureless is nature's face, 

Ali masked in clouds her mien. 

" Scarce is the rustle of a leaf 

Heard in our garden now ; 
The year grows old, its days wax brief, 

The tresses leave its brow. 
The rain drives fast before the wind. 

The sky is blank and grey ; 
O Jane, what sadness fills the mind 

On such a dreary day !" 



PRESENTIMENT. 1 13 

" You think too much, my sister dear ; 

You sit too long alone ; 
What though November days be drear ? 

Full soon will they be gone. 
I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair, 

Come, Emma, sit by me ; 
Our own fireside is never drear, 
Though late and wintry wane the year. 

Though rough the night may be." 

" The peaceful glow of our fireside 

Imparts no peace to me : 
My thoughts would rather wander wide 

Than rest, dear Jane, with thee. 
I'm on a distant journey bound. 

And if, about my heart. 
Too closely kindred ties were bound, 

'T would break when forced to part. 

" ' Soon will November days be o'er ;' 

Well have you spoken, Jane : 
My own forebodings tell me more, 
For me, I know by presage sure. 

They'll ne'er return again. 
Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me 

Will bring or joy or gloom ; 
They reach not that Eternity 

Which soon will be my home." 



1 14 PRESENTIMENT. 

Eight months are gone, the summer sun 

Sets in a glorious sky ; 
A quiet field, ail green and lone, 

Receives its rosy d3^e. 
Jane sits upon a shaded stile. 

Alone she sits there now ; 
Her head rests on her hand the while, 

And thought o'ercasts her brow. 

She's thinking of one winter's day, 

A few short months ago, 
When Emma's bier was borne away 

O'er wastes of frozen snow. 
She's thinking how that drifted snow 

Dissolved in spring's first gleam, 
And how her sister's memory now 

Fades, even as fades a dream. 

The snow will whiten earth again. 

But Emma comes no more ; 
She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain, 

This world for Heaven's far shore. 
On Beulah's hills she wanders now, 

On Eden's tranquil plain ; 
To her shall Jane hereafter go. 

She ne'er shall come to Jane ! 



CURRER. 



115 



HOW CLEAR SHE SHINES. 

How clear she shines ! How quietly 

I lie beneath her guardian light ; 
While heaven and earth are whispering me, 

"To-morrow, wake, but dream to-night." 
Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love ! 

These throbbing temples softly kiss ; 
And bend my lonely couch above 

And bring me rest, and bring me bliss. 

The world is going ; dark world, adieu ! 

Grim world, conceal thee till the day ; 
The heart, thou canst not all subdue, 

Must still resist, if thou delay ! 

Thy love I will not, will not share ; 

Thy hatred only wakes a smile ; 
Thy griefs may wound — thy wrong may tear. 

But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile ! 
While gazing on the stars that glow 

Above me, in that stormless sea, 
I long to hope that all the woe 

Creation knows, is held in thee ! 

And this shall be my dream to-night ; 
I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres 



116 A WORD TO THE "ELECT." 

Is rolling on its course of light 

In endless bliss, through endless years ; 

I'll think, there's not one world above. 
Far as these straining eyes can see, 

Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love, 
Or Virtue crouched to Infamy ; 

Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate, 

The mangled wretch was forced to smile ; 
To match his patience 'gainst her hate, 

His heart rebellious all the while. 
Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong. 

And helpless reason warn in vain ; 
And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong ; 

And Joy the surest path to Pain ; 
And Peace, the lethargy of Grief; 

And Hope, a phantom of the soul ; 
And Life, a labour, void and brief; 

And Death, the despot of the whole ! 

Ellis. 



A WORD TO THE "ELECT." 

You may rejoice to think yourselves secure ; 

You may be grateful for the gift divine — 

That grace unsought, which made your black hearts 

pure, 
And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to shine. 



A WORD TO THE "ELECT." 117 

But, is it sweet to look around, and view 
Thousands excluded from that happiness 
Which they deserv^ed, at least, as much as you, — 
Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less ? 

And, wherefore should you love your God the more 
Because to you alone his smiles are given ; 
Because he chose to pass the many o'er, 
And only bring the favoured/e?^ to Heaven ? 

And, w^herefore should your hearts more grateful 

prove, 
Because for all the Saviour did not die 1 
Is yours the God of justice and of love ? 
And are your bosoms warm with charity ? 

Say, does your heart expand to all mankind ? 
And, would you ever to your neighbour do — 
The weak, the strong, the enlightened, and the 

blind- 
As you would have your neighbour do to you ? 

And , when you, looking on your fellow-men, 
Behold them doomed to endless misery, 
How can you talk of joy and rapture then? — 
May God withhold such cruel joy from me ! 

That none deserve eternal bliss I know ; 
Unmerited the grace in mercy given : 



118 A WORD TO THE "ELECT." 

But, none shall sink to everlasting woe, 

That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven. 

And, oh ! there lives within my heart 

A hope, long nursed by me ; 
(And, should its cheering ray depart, 

How dark my soul would be !) 

That as in Adam all have died, 

In Christ shall all men live ; 
And ever round his throne abide, 

Eternal praise to give. 

That even the wicked shall at last 

Be fitted for the skies ; 
And, when their dreadful doom is past, 

To life and light arise. 

I ask not, how remote the day, 

Nor what the sinners' woe. 
Before their dross is purged away ; 
Enough for me, to know 

That when the cup of wrath is drained, 

The metal purified, 
Thej^'ll cHng to what they once disdained. 

And live by Him that died. 

Acton. 



119 



THE TEACHER'S MONOLOGUE. 

The room is quiet, thoughts alone 

People its mute tranquillity ; 

The yoke put off, the long task done, — 

I am, as it is bliss to be. 

Still and untroubled. Now, I see, 

For the first time, how soft the day 

O'er waveless water, stirless tree, 

Silent and sunny, wings its way. 

Now, as I watch that distant hill, 

So faint, so blue, so far removed, 

Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill. 

That home v/here I am known and loved : 

It lies beyond ; yon azure brow 

Parts me from all Earth holds for me ; 

And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow 

Thitherward tending, changelessly. 

My happiest hours, aye ! all the time, 

I love to keep in memory. 

Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime 

Decayed to dark anxiety. 

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart 
Makes me thus mourn those far away, 
And keeps my love so far apart 
From friends and friendships of to-day ; 



120 THE teacher's MONOLOGUE. 

Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream 

I treasure up so jealously, 

All the sweet thoughts I live on seem 

To vanish into vacancy ; 

And then, this strange, coarse world around 

Seems all that's palpable and true ; 

And every sight, and every sound, 

Combines my spirit to subdue 

To aching grief, so void and lone 

Is Life and Earth — so worse than vain, 

The hopes that, in my own heart sown, 

And cherished by such sun and rain 

As Joy and transient Sorrow shed. 

Have ripened to a harvest there : 

Alas! methinks I hear it said, 

" Thy golden sheaves are empty air." 

All fades away ; my very home 

I think will soon be desolate ; 

I hear, at times, a warning come 

Of bitter partings at its gate ; 

And, if I should return and see 

The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair ; 

And hear it whispered mournfully, 

That farewells have been spoken there, 

What shall I do, and whither turn ? 

Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ? 



THE teacher's MONOLOGUE. 121 

'Tis not the air I wished to play, 

The strain I wished to sing ; 
My wilful spirit slipped away 

And struck another string. 
I neither wanted smile nor tear, 

Bright joy nor bitter woe. 
But just a song that sweet and clear. 

Though haply sad, might flow. 

A quiet song, to solace me 

When sleep refused to come ; 
A strain to chase despondency, 

When sorrowful for home. 
In vain I try ; I cannot sing ; 

All feels so cold and dead ; 
No wild distress, no gushing spring 

Of tears in anguish shed ; 

But all the impatient gloom of one 

Who waits a distant day. 
When, some great task of suffering done. 

Repose shall toil repay. . 
For youth departs, and pleasure flies, 

And life consumes away. 
And youth's rejoicing ardour dies 

Beneath this drear delay ; 

And Patience, weary with her yoke. 

Is yielding to despair. 
And Health's elastic spring is broke 

Beneath the strain of care. 



122 SYMPATHY. 

Life will be gone ere I have lived ; 

Where now is Life's first prime ? 
I've worked and studied, longed and grieved, 

Through all that rosy time. 

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve, — 

Is such my future fate ? 
The morn was dreary, must the eve 

Be also desolate ? 
Well, such a life at least makes Death 

A welcome, wished-for friend ; 
Then, aid me. Reason, Patience, Faith, 

To suffer to the end ! 



CURRER. 



SYMPATHY. 

There should be no despair for you 

While nightly stars are burning ; 
While evening pours its silent dew 

And sunshine gilds the morning. 
"^ There should be no despair — though tears 

May flow down like a river : 
Are not the best beloved of years 

Around vour heart for ever ? 



PAST DAYS. 



123 



They weep, you weep, it must be so ; 

Winds sigh as you are sighing, 
And winter sheds his grief in snow 

Where Autumn's leaves are lying : 
Yet, these revive, and from their fate 

Your fate cannot be parted : 
Then, journey on,^ if not elate, 

Still, never broken-hearted ! / 



Ellis. 



PAST DAYS. 

'Tis strange to think, there was a time 
When mirth was not an empty name. 
When laughter really cheered the heart. 
And frequent smiles unbidden came, 
And tears of grief would only flow 
In sympathy for others' woe ; 

When speech expressed the inward thought. 
And heart to kindred heart was bare, 
And Summer days were far too short 
For all the pleasures crowded there, 
And silence, soKtude, and rest. 
Now welcome to the weary breast — 



124 PASSION. 

Were all unprized, uncourted then — 
And all the joy one spirit showed, 
The other deeply felt again ; 
And friendship like a river flowed. 
Constant and strong its silent course. 
For nought withstood its gentle force : 

When night, the holy time of peace. 
Was dreaded as the parting hour ; 
When speech and mirth at once must cease. 
And Silence must resume her power ; 
Though ever free from pains and woes. 
She only brought us calm repose. 

And when the blessed dawn again 
Brought daylight to the blushing skies. 
We woke, and not reluctant th en, 
To joyless labour did we rise ; 
But full of hope, and glad and gay, 
We welcomed the returning day. 



Acton. 



PASSION. 



Some have won a wild delight, 
By daring wilder sorrow ; 

Could I gain thy love to-night, 
I'd hazard death to-morrow. 



PASSION. 125 

Could the battle-struggle earn 

One kind glance from thine eye, 
How this withering heart would burn, 

The heady fight to try ! 

Welcome nights of broken sleep, 

And days of carnage cold. 
Could I deem that thou wouldst weep 

To hear my perils told. 

Tell me, if with wandering bands 

I roam full far away. 
Wilt thou, to those distant lands. 

In spirit ever stray ? 

Wild, long, a trumpet sounds afar ; 

Bid me — bid me go 
Where Seik and Briton meet in war. 

On Indian Sutlej's flow. 

Blood has dyed the Sutlej's waves 

With scarlet stain, I know ; 
Indus' borders yawn with graves. 

Yet, command me go ! 

Though rank and high the holocaust 

Of nations, steams to heaven, 
Glad I'd join the death-doomed host, 

Were but the mandate given. 

6* 



126 PASSION. 

Passion's strength should nerve my arm, 

Its ardour stir my life, 
Till human force to that dread charm 
Should yield and sink in wild alarm, 

Like trees to tempest-strife. 

If, hot from war, I seek thy love. 

Barest thou turn aside ? 
Barest thou, then, my fire reprove. 

By scorn, and maddening- pride ? 

No — my will shall yet control 

Thy will, so high and free. 
And love shall tame that haughty soul — 

Yes — tenderest love for me. 

I'll read my triumph in thine eyes, 
Behold, and prove the change ; 

Then leave, perchance, my noble prize. 
Once more in arms to range. 

I'd die when all the foam is up. 
The bright wine sparkling high ; 

Nor wait till in the exhausted cup 
Life's dull dregs only lie. 

Then Love thus crowned with sweet reward, 

Hope blest with fulness large, 
I'd mount the saddle, draw the sword, 

And perish in the charge ! 

CURRBR. 



127 



PREFERENCE. 

Not in scorn do I reprove thee, 

Not in pride thy vows I waive, 

But, believe, I could not love thee, 

Wert thou prince, and I a slave. 

These, then, are thine oaths of passion ? 

This, thy tenderness for me ? 

Judged, even, by thine own confession, 

Thou art steeped in perfidy. 

Having vanquished, thou wouldst leave me, 

Thus I read thee long ago ; 

Therefore, dared I not deceive thee, 

Even with friendship's gentle show. 

Therefore, with impassive coldness 

Have I ever met thy gaze ; 

Though, full oft, with daring boldness, 

Thou thine eyes to mine didst raise. 

Why that smile ? Thou now art deeming 

This my coldness all untrue, — 

But a mask of frozen seeming. 

Hiding secret fires from view. 

Touch my hand, thou self-deceiver ; 

Nay — be calm, for I am so : 

Does it burn ? Does my lip quiver ? i 



128 PREFERENCE. 

Has mine eye a troubled glow ? 

Canst thou call a moment's colour 

To my forehead — to my cheek ? 

Canst thou tinge meir tranquil pallor 

With one flattering, feverish streak ? 

Am I marble ? What ! no woman 

Could so calm before thee stand ? 

Nothing living, sentient, human, 

Could so coldly take thy hand ? 

Yes — a sister might, a mother : 

My good-will is sisterly : 

Dream not, then, I strive to smother 

Fires that inly burn for thee. 

Rave not, rage not, wrath is fruitless, 

Fury cannot change my mind ; 

I but deem the feeling rootless 

Which so whirls in passion's wind. 

Can I love ? Oh, deeply — truly — 

Warmly — fondly — but not thee ; 

And my love is answered duly, 

With an equal energy. 

Wouldst thou see thy rival ? Hasten, 

Draw that curtain soft aside, 

Look where yon thick branches chasten 

Noon, with shades of eventide. 

In that glade, where foliage blending 

Forms a green arch overhead, 

Sits thy rival thoughtful bending 

O'er a stand with papers spread — 

Motionless, his fingers plying 



PREFERENCE. 129 

That untired, unresting pen ; 
Time and tide unnoticed flying, 
There he sits — the first of men ! 
Man of conscience — man of reason ; 
Stern, perchance, but ever just ; 
Foe to falsehood, wrong, and treason, 
Honour's shield, and virtue's trust ! 
Worker, thinker, firm defender 
Of Heaven's truth — man's liberty ; 
Soul of iron — proof to slander. 
Rock where founders tyranny. 
Fame he seeks not— but full surely 
She will seek him, in his home ; 
This I know, and wait securely 
For the atoning hour to come. 
To that man my faith is given, 
Therefore, soldier, cease to sue ; 
While God reigns in earth and heaven, 
I to him will still be true ! 

CURRER. 



1:^1 



PLEAD FOR ME. 

Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now. 
When Reason, with a scornful brow, 
Is mocking at my overthrow ! 
Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me 
And tell, why I have chosen thee ! 

Stern Reason is to judgment come. 
Arrayed in all her forms of gloom : 
Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb ? 
No, radiant angel, speak and say. 
Why I did cast the world away. 

Why I have persevered to shun 
The common paths that othei-s run. 
And on a strange road journeyed on, 
Heedless, alike, of wealth and power — 
Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower. 

These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine 
And they, perchance, heard vows of mine. 
And saw my offerings on their shrine ; 
But, careless gifts are seldom prized. 
And mine were worthily despised. 



PLEAD FOR ME. 

So, with a ready heart I swore 
To seek their altar-stone no more ; 
And gave my spirit to adore 
Thee, ever-present, phantom thing ; 
My slave, my comrade, and my king. 

A slave, because I rule thee still ; 
Incline thee to my changeful will, 
And make thy influence good or ill : 
A comrade, for by day and night 
Thou art my intimate delight,— 

My darling pain that wounds and sears 
And wrings a blessing out from tears 
By deadening me to earthly cares ; 
And yet, a king, though Prudence well 
Have taught thy subject to rebel. 

And am I wrong to worship, where 
Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair, 
Since my own soul can grant my prayer ? 
Speak, God of visions, plead for me, 
■ And tell why 1 have chosen thee ! 



131 



Ellis. 



132 



THE CONSOLATION. 

Though bleak these woods, and damp the ground 
With fallen leaves so thickly strown, 
And cold the wind that wanders round 
With wild and melancholy moan ; 

There is a friendly roof, I know, 
Might shield me from the wintry blast ; 
There is a fire, whose ruddy glow 
Will cheer me for my wanderings past. 

And so, though still, where'er I go, 
Cold stranger-glances meet my eye ; 
Though, when my spirit sinks in woe, 
Unheeded swells the unbidden sigh ; 

Though solitude, endured too long, 
Bids youthful joys too soon decay, 
Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue, 
And overclouds my noon of day ; 

When kindly thoughts, that would have way. 
Flow back discouraged to my breast ; — 
I know there is, though far away, 
A home where heart and soul may rest. 



EVENING SOLACE. 133 

Warm hands are there, that, clasped in mine, 
The warmer heart will not belie ; 
While mirth, and truth, and friendship shine 
In smiling lip and earnest eye. 

The ice that gathers round my heart 
May there be thawed ; and sweetly, then, 
The joys of youth, that now depart. 
Will come to cheer my soul again. 

Though far I roam, that thought shall be 
My hope, my comfort, everywhere ; 
While such a home remains to me. 
My heart shall never knoAV despair ! 

Acton. 



EVENING SOLACE. 

The human heart has hidden treasures. 
In secret kept, in silence sealed ; — 
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the 

pleasures. 
Whose charms were broken if revealed. 
And days may pass in gay confusion. 
And nights in rosy riot fly. 
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion, 
The memory of the Past may die. 
7 



134 EVENING SOLACE. 

But, there are hours of lonely musing, 
Such as in evening silence come. 
When, soft as birds their pinions closing, 
The heart's best feelings gather home. 
Then in our souls there seems to languish 
A tender grief that is not woe ; 
And thoughts that once wrung groans of 

anguish, 
Now cause but some mild tears to flow. 

And feelings, once as strong as passions, 

Float softly back — a faded dream ; 

Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations. 

The tale of others' sufferings seem. 

Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding, 

How longs it for that time to be, 

When, through the mist of years receding. 

Its woes but live in reverie ! 

And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer. 

On evening shade and lonehness ; 

And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, 

Feel no untold and strange distress — 

Only a deeper impulse given 

By lonely hour and darkened room. 

To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven. 

Seeking a life and world to come. 



CURRER. 



SELF-INTERROGATION. 

" The evening passes last away, 

'Tis almost time to rest ; 
What thoughts has left the vanished day, 

What feelings, in thy breast ? 

" The vanished day ? It leaves a sense 

Of labour hardly done ; 
Of little, gained with vast expense, — 

A sense of grief alone ! 

" Time stands before the door of Death, 

Upbraiding bitterly ; 
And Conscience, with exhaustless breath. 

Pours black reproach on me : 

" And though I've said that Conscience lies. 
And Time should Fate condemn ; 

Still, sad Repentance clouds my eyes, 
And makes me yield to them ! 

"Then art thou glad to seek repose? 

Art glad to leave the sea, 
And anchor all thy weary woes 

In calm Eternity ? 



136 SELF-INTERROGATION. 

"Nothing regrets to see thee go — 

Not one voice sobs * farewell,' 
And where thy heart has suffered so. 

Canst thou desire to dwell ?" 

" Alas ! The countless links are strong 

That bind us to our clay ; 
The loving spirit lingers long. 

And would not pass away ! 

" And rest is sweet, when laurelled fame 

Will crown the soldier's crest ; 
But, a brave heart, with a tarnished name. 

Would rather fight than rest." 

" Well, thou hast fought for many a year, 
Hast fought thy whole life through. 

Hast humbled Falsehood, trampled Fear ; 
What is there left to do ?" 

"'Tis true, this arm has hotly striven. 
Has dared what few would dare ; 

Much have I done, and freely given, 
But little learnt to bear !" 

"Look on the grave, where thou must sleep, 

Thy last, and strongest foe ; 
It is endurance not to weep, 

If that repose seem woe. 



LINES COMPOSED IN A WOOD. 137 

" The long war closing in defeat, 

Defeat serenely borne, 
Thy midnight rest may still be sweet. 

And break in glorious morn !" 

Ellis. 



LINES COMPOSED IN A WOOD ON A 
WINDY DAY. 

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring 
And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze ; 
For above and around me the wild wind is roaring, 
Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas. 

The long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing, 
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high ; 
The dead leaves, beneath them, are merrily dancing. 
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky. 

I wish I could see how the ocean is lashing 
The foam of its billows to whirlwinds of spray ; 
I wish I could see how its proud waves are dashing. 
And hear the wild roar of their thunder to-day ! 

Acton. 



138 



STANZAS. 



If thou be in a lonely place, 

If one hour's calm be thine, 
As Evening bends her placid face 

O'er this sweet day's decline ; 
If all the earth and all the heaven 

Now look serene to thee. 
As o'er them shuts the summer even. 

One moment— think of me ! 

Pause, in the lane, returning home ; 

'Tis dusk, it will be still : 
Pause near the elm, a sacred gloom 

Its breezeless boughs will fill. 
Look at that soft and golden light, 

High in the unclouded sky ; 
Watch the last bird's belated flight, 

As it flits silent by. 

Hark ! for a sound upon the wind, 

A step, a voice, a sigh ; 
If all be still, then yield thy mind. 

Unchecked, to memory. 
If thy love were like mine, how blest 

That twilight hour would seem. 
When, back from the regretted Past, 

Returned our early dream ! 



STANZAS. 



139 



If thy love were like mine, how wild 

Thy longings, even to pain, 
For sunset soft, and moonlight mild, 

To bring that hour again ! 
But oft, when in thine arms I lay, 

I've seen thy dark eyes shine. 
And deeply felt, their changeful ray 

Spoke other love than mine. 

My love is almost anguish now, 

It beats so strong and true ; 
'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou 

Such anguish ever knew. 
I have been but thy transient flower, 

Thou wert my god divine ; 
Till, checked by death's congealing power. 

This heart must throb for thine. 

And well my dying hour were blest, 

If life's expiring breath 
Should pass, as thy lips gently prest 

My forehead, cold in death ; 
And sound my sleep would be, and sweet. 

Beneath the churchyard tree. 
If sometimes in thy heart should beat 

One pulse, still true to me. 

CURRER. 



140 



DEATH. 

Death! that struck when I was most confiding 
In my certain faith of joy to be — 
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing 
From the fresh root of Eternity ! 

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly, 
Full of sap, and full of silver dew ; 
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly ; 
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew. 

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom ; 
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride ; 
But, within its parent's kindly bosom, 
Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide. 

Little mourned I for the parted gladness. 

For the vacant nest and silent song — 

Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness ; 

Whispering, "Winter will not linger long !" 

And, behold ! with tenfold increase blessing, 
Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray ; 
Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing, 
Lavished glory on that second May ! 

High it rose — ^no winged grief could sweep it ; 
Sin was scared to distance with its shine ; 



VIEWS OF LIFE. 141 

Love, and its own life, had power to keep it 
From a]J wrong — from every blight but thine ! 

Cruel Death ! The young leaves droop and languish ; 
Evening's gentle air may still restore — 
No ! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish — 
Time, for me, must never blossom more ! 

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish 
Where that perished sapling used to be ; 
Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish 
That from which it sprung — Eternity. 

Ellis. 



VIEWS OF LIFE. 

When sinks my heart in hopeless gloom, 
And life can show no joy for me ; 
And I behold a yawning tomb, 
Where bowers and palaces should be ; 

In vain you talk of morbid dreams ; 
In vain you gaily smiling say, 
That what to me so dreary seems, 
The healthy mind deems bright and gay. 



142 VIEWS OF LIFE. 

I too have smiled, and thought like you, 
But madly smiled, and falsely deemed : 
Truth led me to the present view, 
I'm waking now — 'twas then I dreamed. 

I lately saw a sunset sky. 
And stood enraptured to behold 
Its varied hues of glorious dye : 
First, fleecy clouds of shining gold ; 

These blushing took a rosy hue ; 
Beneath them shone a flood of green ; 
Nor less divine, the glorious blue 
That smiled above them and between. 

I cannot name each lovely shade ; 

I cannot say how bright they shone ; 

But one by one, I saw them fade ; 

And what remained when they were gone ? 

Dull clouds remained, of sombre hue. 
And when their borrowed charm was o'er. 
The azure sky had faded too. 
That smiled so softly bright before. 

So, gilded by the glow of youth, 
Our varied life looks fair and gay ; 
And so remains the naked truth. 
When that false light is passed away. 



VIEWS OF LIFE. 143 

Why blame ye, then, my keener sight, 
That clearly sees a world of woes. 
Through all the haze of golden light. 
That flattering Falsehood round it throws ? 

When the young mother smiles above 
The first-born darhng of her heart, 
Her bosom glows with earnest love, 
While tears of silent transport start. 

Fond dreamer ! little does she know 
The anxious toil, the suffering. 
The blasted hopes, the burning woe. 
The object of her joy will bring. 

Her Winded eyes behold not now 
What, soon or late, must be his doom ; 
The anguish that will cloud his brow, 
The bed of death, the dreary tomb. 

As little know the youthful pair, 
In mutual love supremely blest. 
What weariness, and cold despair. 
Ere long, will seize the aching breast. 

And, even, should Love and Faith remain, 
(The greatest blessings life can show,) 

/"Amid adversity and pain, 

\To shine, throughout with cheering glow ; 



144 VIEWS OF LIFE. 

They do not see how cruel Death 
Comes on, their loving hearts to part : 
One feels not now the gasping breath, 
The rending of the earth-bound heart,- 

The soul's and body's agony, 
Ere she may sink to her repose. 
The sad survivor cannot see 
The grave above his darling close ; 

Nor how, despairing and alone, 
He then must wear his life away ; 
And linger, feebly toiling on, 
And fainting, sink into decay. 



Oh, Youth may listen patiently, 
While sad Experience tells her tale ; 
But Doubt sits smiling in his eye. 
For ardent Hope will still prevail ! 

He hears how feeble Pleasure dies, 
By guilt destroyed, and pain and woe ; 
He turns to Hope — and she replies, 
" Beheve it not — it is not so !" 

"Oh, heed her not !" Experience says, 
"For thus she whispered once to me; 



VIEWS OF LIFE. 

She told me, in my youthful days, 

How glorious manhood's prime would be. 

When, in the time of early Spring, 
Too chill the winds that o'er me pass'd, 
She said, each coming day would bring 
A fairer heaven, a gentler blast. 

And when the sun too seldom beamed. 
The sky, o'ercast, too darkly frowned, 
The soaking rain too constant streamed, 
And mists too dreary gathered round ; . 

She told me, Summer's glorious ray 
Would chase those vapours all away, 

And scatter glories round ; 
With sweetest music fill the trees. 
Load with rich scent the gentle breeze. 

And strew with flowers the ground. 

But when, beneath that scorching ray, 
I languished, weary, through the day. 

While birds refused to sing, 
Verdure decayed from field and tree, 
And panting Nature mourned with me 

The freshness of the Spring. 

* Wait but a little while,' she said, 
' Till Summer's burning days are fled ; 
And Autumn shall restore, 



145 



146 VIEWS OF LIFE. 

With golden riches of her own, 
And Summer's glories mellowed down, 
The freshness you deplore." 

And long 1 waited, but in vain : 
That freshness never came again, 

Though Summer passed away. 
Though Autumn's mists hung cold and chill, 
And drooping nature languished still, 

And sank into decay. 

Till wintry blasts foreboding blew 
Through leafless trees — and then I knew 

That Hope was all a dream. 
But thus, fond youth, she cheated me ; 
And she will prove as false to thee. 

Though sweet her words may seem." 

Stern prophet ! Cease thy bodings dire — 
Thou canst not quench the ardent fire 

That warms the breast of youth. 
Oh, let it cheer him while it may, 
And gently, gently die away — 

Chilled by the damps of truth ! 

Tell him, that earth is not our rest ; 
Its joys are empty — frail at best ; 
And point beyond the sky. 



VIEWS OF LIFE. 147 

But gleams of light may reach us here ; 
And hope the roughest path can cheer : 
Then do not bid it fly ! 

Though hope may promise joys, that still 
Unkindly time will ne'er fulfil ; 

Or, if they come at all, 
We never find them unalloyed, — 
Hurtful perchance, or soon destroyed, 

They vanish or they pall ; 

Yet hope itself a brightness throws 
O'er all our labours and our woes ; 

While dark foreboding Care 
A thousand ills will oft portend, 
That Providence may ne'er intend 

The trembling heart to bear. 

Or if they come, it oft appears, 
Our woes are lighter than our fears. 

And far more bravely borne. 
Then let us not enhance our doom ; 
But e'en in midnight's blackest gloom 

Expect the rising morn. 

Because the road is rough and long. 

Shall we despise the skylark's song. 

That cheers the wanderer's w^y ? 



148 VIEWS OF LIFE. 

Or trample down, with reckless feet, 
The smiling flowerets, bright and sweet, 
Because they soon decay ? 

Pass pleasant scenes unnoticed by. 
Because the next is bleak and drear ; 
Or not enjoy a smiling sky, 
Because a tempest may be near ? 

No ! while we journey on our way, 
We'll smile on every lovely thing ; 
And ever, as they pass away. 
To memory and hope we'll cling. 

And though that awful river flows 
Before us, when the journey's past. 
Perchance of all the pilgrim's woes 
Most dreadful — phrink not — 'tis the last ! 

Though icy cold, and dark, and deep ; 
Beyond it smiles that blessed shore. 
Where none shall suffer, none shall weep, 
And bliss shall reign for evermore ! 



Acton, 



149 



PARTING. 

There's no use in weeping, 
Though we are condemned to part : 
There's such a thing as keeping 
A remembrance in one's heart : 

There's such a thing as dwelHng 
On the thought ourselves have nurs'd, 
And with scorn and courage telhng 
The world to do its worst. 

We'll not let its follies grieve us, 
We'll just take them as they come ; 
And then every day will leave us 
A merry laugh for home. 

When we've left each friend and brother, 
W^hen we're parted wide and far, 
We will think of one another, 
As even better than we are. 

Every glorious sight above us, 
Every pleasant sight beneath, 
We'll connect with those that love us. 
Whom we truly love till death ! 

7* 



150 STANZAS. 

In the evening, when we're sitting 

By the fire perchance alone, 

Then shall heart with warm heart meeting, 

Give responsive tone for tone. 

We can burst the bonds which chain us, 
Which cold human hands have wrought, 
And where none shall dare restrain us 
We can meet again, in thought. 

So there's no use in weeping, 
Bear a cheerful spirit still ; 
Never doubt that Fate is keeping 
Future good for present ill ! 

CURRER. 



STANZAS TO 



Well, some may hate, and some may scorn, 
And some may quite forget thy name 
But my sad heart must ever mourn 
Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame 
'Twas thus I thought, an hour ago, 
Even weeping o'er that wretch's woe ; 



STANZAS. 151 

One word turned back my gushing tears, 
And lit my altered eye with sneers. 
Then " Bless the friendly dust," I said, 
" That hides thy unlamented head ! 
Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain, 
The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain, — 
My heart has nought akin to thine ; 
Thy soul is powerless over mine." 

But these were thoughts that vanished too ; 
Unwise, unholy, and untrue : 
Do I despise the timid deer. 
Because his limbs are fleet with fear ? 
Or, would I mock the wolfs death -howl. 
Because his form is gaunt and foul ? 
Or, hear with joy the leveret's cry, 
Because it cannot bravely die ? 
No ! Then above his memory 
Let Pity's heart as tender be ; 
Say, " Earth, lie lightly on that breast. 
And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest !" 

Ellis. 



152 



APPEAL. 



Oh, I am very weary, 

Though tears no longer flow ; 
My eyes are tired of weeping, 

My heart is sick of woe ; 

My life is very lonely, 

My days pass heavily, 
I'm weary of repining, 

Wilt thou not come to me ? 

Oh, didst thou know my longings 
For thee, from day to day. 

My hopes, so often bhghted. 
Thou wouldst not thus delay ! 



Acton. 



HONOUR'S MARTYR. 

The moon is full this winter night ; 

The stars are clear though few ; 
And every window glistens bright. 

With leaves of frozen dew. 



honour's martyr. 153 

The sweet moon through your lattice gleams 

And lights your room like day ; 
And there you pass, in happy dreams, 

The peaceful hours away ! 

While I, with effort hardly quelling 

The anguish in my breast. 
Wander about the silent dwelling, 

And cannot think of rest. 

The old clock in the gloomy hall 

Ticks on, from hour to hour ; 
And every time its measured call 

Seems lingering slow and slower : 

And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star 

Has tracked the chilly grey ! 
What, watching yet ! how very far 

The morning lies away ! 

Without your chamber door I stand ; 

Love, are you slumbering still ? 
My cold heart, underneath my hand. 

Has almost ceased to thrill. 

Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs, 

And drowns the turret bell. 
Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies 

Unheard, like my farewell ! 



154 



To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name, 

And Hate will trample me, 
Will load me with a coward's shame — 

A traitor's perjury. 

False friends will launch their covert sneers ; 

True friends will wish me dead ; 
And I shall cause the bitterest tears 

That you have ever shed. 

The dark deeds of my outlawed race 

Will then like virtues shine ; 
And men will pardon their disgrace. 

Beside the guilt of mine. 

For, who forgives the accursed crime 

Of dastard treachery ? 
Rebellion, in its chosen time, 

May Freedom's champion be ; 

Revenge may stain a righteous sword. 

It may be just to slay ; 
But, traitor, traitor, — from that word 

All true breasts shrink away ! 

Oh, I would give my heart to death, 

To keep my honour fair ; 
Yet, I'll not give my inward faith 

My honour's name to spare 1 



THE student's SERENADE. 155 

Not even to keep your priceless love, 

Dare I, Beloved, deceive ; 
This treason should the future prove, 

Then, only then, believe ! 

I know the path I ought to go ; 

I follow fearlessly. 
Inquiring not what deeper woe 

Stern duty stores for me. 

So foes pursue, and cold allies 

Mistrust me, every one : 
Let me be false in others' eyes. 

If faithful in my own. 

Ellis. 



THE STUDENT'S SERENADE. 

I HAVE slept upon my couch. 
But my spirit did not rest. 
For the labours of the day 
Yet my weary soul opprest ; 



156 THE student's serenade. 

And, before my dreaming eyes 
Still the learned volumes lay, 
And I could not close their leaves. 
And I could not turn away. 

But I oped my eyes at last, 
And I heard a muffled sound ; 
'Twas the night-breeze, come to say 
That the snow was on the ground. 

Then I knew that there was rest 
On the mountain's bosom free ; 
So I left my fevered couch, 
And I flew to waken thee ! 

I have flown to waken thee — 
For, if thou wilt not arise. 
Then my soul can drink no peace 
From these holy moonlight skies. 

And, this waste of virgin snow 
To my sight will not be fair, 
Unless thou wilt smiling come. 
Love, to wander with me there. 

Then, awake ! Maria, wake ! 
For, if thou couldst only know 
How the quiet moonhght sleeps 
On this wilderness of snow. 



APOSTASY. 157 

And the groves of ancient trees. 
In their snowy garb arrayed, 
Till they stretch into the gloom 
Of the distant valley's shade ; 

I know thou wouldst rejoice 

To inhale this bracing air; 

Thou wouldst break thy sweetest sleep 

To behold a scene so fair. 

O'er these wintry wilds, alone. 
Thou wouldst joy to wander free; 
And it will not please thee less, 
Though that bliss be shared with me. 

Acton. 



APOSTASY. 

This last denial of my faith, 

Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard ; 
And, though upon my bed of death, 

I call not back a word. 
Point not to thy Madonna, Priest, — 

Thy sightless saint of stone ; 
She cannot, from this burning breast, 

Wring one repentant moan. 
8 



158 APOSTASY. 

Thou say'st, that when a sinless child, 

I duly hent the knee, 
And prayed to what in marble smiled 

Cold, lifeless, mute, on me. 
I did. But listen ! Children spring 

Full soon to riper youth ; 
And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring, 

I sold my early truth. 

'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine. 

Bent o'er me, when I said, 
" That land and God and Faith are mine, 

For which thy fathers bled." 
I see thee not, my eyes are dim ; 

But, well I hear thee say, 
" O daughter, cease to think of him 

Who led thy soul astray. 

Between you lies both space and time ; 

Let leagues and years prevail 
To turn thee from the path of crime, 

Back to the Church's pale." 
And, did I need that thou shouldst tell 

What mighty barriers rise 
To part me from that dungeon-cell. 

Where my loved Walter lies ? 

And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt 

My dying hour at last. 
By bidding this worn spirit pant 

No more for what is past ? 



APOSTASY. 159 

Priest — must I cease to think of him ? 

How hollow rings that word ! 
Can time, can tears, can distance dim 

The memory of my lord ? 

I said before, I saw not thee, 

Because, an hour agone, 
Over my eye-balls, heavily. 

The hds fell down like stone. 
But still my spirit's inward sight 

Beholds his image beam 
As fixed, as clear, as burning bright, 

As some red planet's gleam. 

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament, 

Tell not thy beads for me ; 
Both rite and prayer are vainly spent, 

As dews upon the sea. 
Speak not one word of Heaven above, 

Rave not of Hell's alarms ; 
Give me but back my Walter's love, 

Restore me to his arms ! 

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won ; 

Then will Hell shrink away. 
As I have seen night's terrors shun 

The conquering steps of day. 
'Tis my rehgion thus to love. 

My creed thus fixed to be ; 
Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break 

My rock-like constancy ! 



160 STANZAS. 

Now go ; for at the door there waits 

Another stranger guest : 
He calls — I come — my pulse scarce beats, 

My heart fails in my breast. 
Again that voice — how far away, 

How dreary sounds that tone ! 
And I, methinks, am gone astray 

In trackless wastes and lone. 

I fain would rest a httle while : 

Where can I find a stay. 
Till dawn upon the hills shall smile, 

And show some trodden way ? 
" I come ! I come !" in haste she said, 

" 'Twas Walter's voice I heard !" 
Then up she sprang — but fell back, dead, 

His name her latest word. 



CURRER. 



STANZAS. 



I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me, 

There's nothing lovely here ; 
And doubly will the dark world grieve me. 

While thy heart suffers there. 

I'll not weep because the summer's glory 
Must always end in gloom ; 



THE CAPTIVE DOVE. 161 



And, follow out the happiest story — 
It closes with the tomb ! 

And I am weary of the anguish 

Increasing winters bear ; 
Weary to watch the spirit languish 

Through years of dead despair. 

So, if a tear, when thou art dying, 
Should haply fall from me, 

It is but that my soul is sighing, 
To go and rest with thee. 



Ellip 



THE CAPTIVE DOVE. 

Poor restless dove, I pity thee ; 
And when I hear thy plaintive moan, 
I mourn for thy captivity, 
And in thy woes forget mine own. 

To see thee stand prepared to fly, 
And flap those useless wings of thine, 
And gaze into the distant sky, 
Would melt a harder heart than mine. 

In vain — in vain ! Thou canst not rise 
Thy prison roof confines thee there ; 
Its slender wires delude thine eyes, 
And quench thy longings with despair. 



162 WINTER STORES. 

Oh, thou wert made to wander free 
In sunny mead and shady grove, 
And, far beyond the rolling sea, 
In distant chmes, at will to rove ! 

Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate 
Thy little drooping heart to cheer. 
And share with thee thy captive state, 
Thou coiildst be happy even there. 

Yes, even there, if, listening by. 
One faithful dear companion stood. 
While gazing on her full black eye, 
Thou mightst forget thy native wood. 

But thou, poor solitary dove, 
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan ; 
The heart, that Nature formed to love, 
Must pine, neglected and alone. 



Acton. 



WINTER STORES. 

We take from hfe one little share. 
And say that this shall be 

A space redeemed from toil and care, 
From tears and sadness free. 



WINTER STORES. 16:^ 

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow 

And Sorrow stands apart. 
And, for a little while, we know 

The sunshine of the heart. 

Existence seems a summer eve, 

Warm, soft, and full of peace ; 
Our free, unfettered feelings give 

The soul its full release. 

A moment, then, it takes the power. 

To call up thoughts that throw 
Around that charmed and hallowed hour. 

This life's divinest glow. 

But Time, though viewlessly it flies, 

And slowly, will not stay ; 
Alike, through clear and clouded skies, 

It cleaves its silent way. 

Alike the bitter cup of grief, 

Alike the draught of bliss, 
Its progress leaves but moment brief 

For baffled lips to kiss. 

The sparkling draught is dried away, 

The hour of rest is gone. 
And urgent voices, round us, say, 

" Ho, hngerer, hasten on !" 



164 WINTER STORES. 

And has the soul, then, only gained, 

From this brief time of ease, 
A moment's rest, when overstrained, 

One hurried glimpse of peace ? 

No ; while the sun shone kindly o'er us, 
And flowers bloomed round our feet, — 
While many a bud of joy before us 
, Unclosed its petals sweet, — 

An unseen work within was plying ; 

Like honey-seeking bee. 
From flower to flower, unwearied, flying, 

Laboured one faculty, — 

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow. 

Its gloom and scarcity ; 
Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow, 

Toiled quiet Memory. 

'Tis she that from each transient pleasure 

Extracts a lasting good ; 
'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure 

To serve for winter's food. 

And when Youth's summer day is vanished. 
And Age brings Winter's stress, 

Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished, 
Life's evening hours will bless. 

CURRER. 



165 



xMY COMFORTER. 

Well hast ihou spoken, and yet, not taught 

A feeling strange or new ; 
Thou hast but roused a latent thought, 
A cloud-closed beam of sunshine, brought 

To gleam in open view. 

Deep down, concealed within my soul. 

That light lies hid from men : 
Yet, glows unquenched — though shadows roll, 
Its gentle ray cannot control, 

About the sullen den. 

Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways 

To walk alone so long ? 
Around me, wretches uttering praise, 
Or howling o'er their hopeless days. 

And each Avith Frenzy's tongue ; — 

A brotherhood of misery, 

Their smiles as sad as sighs ; 
Whose madness daily maddened me, 
Distorting into agony 

The bliss before my eyes ! 

So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, 
And in the glare of Hell ; 



166 SELF-CONGRATULATION. 

My spirit drank a mingled tone, 
Of seraph's song, and demon's moan ; 
What my soul bore, my soul alone 
Within itself may tell ! 

Like a soft air, above a sea, 
Tossed by the tempest's stir ; 

A thaw-wind, melting quietly 

The snow-drift, on some wintry lea ; 

No: what sweet thing resembles thee, 
My thoughtful Comforter ? 

And yet a little longer speak, 

Calm this resentful mood ; 
And while the savage heart grows meek. 
For other token do not seek. 
But let the tear upon my cheek 

Evince my gratitude ! 



Ellis. 



SELF-CONGRATULATION. 

Ellen, you were thoughtless once 

Of beauty or of grace. 
Simple and homely in attire, 

Careless of form and face ; 



SELF-CONGRATULATION. 107 

Then whence this change ? and wherefore now 

So often smooth your hair ? 
And wherefore deck your youthful form 

With such unwearied care ? 

Tell us — and cease to tire our ears 

With that familiar strain — 
Why will you play those simple tunes 

So often, o'er again ? 
" Indeed, dear friends, I can but say 

That childhood's thoughts are gone ; 
Each year its own new feelings brings, 

And years move swiftly on: 

" And for these little simple airs — 

I love to play them o'er 
So much — I dare not promise, now, 

To play them never more." 
I answered— and it was enough ; 

They turned them to depart ; 
They could not read my secret thoughts, 

Nor see my throbbing heart. 

I've noticed many a youthful form. 

Upon whose changeful face 
The inmost workings of the soul 

The gazer well might trace ; 
The speaking eye, the changing Hp, 

The ready blushing cheek. 
The smiling, or beclouded brow, 

Their different feelings speak. 



168 



SELF-CONGRATULATION. 



But, thank God ! you might gaze on mine 

For hours, and never know 
The secret changes of my soul 

From joy to keenest woe. 
Last night, as we sat round the fire 

Conversing merrily. 
We heard, without, approaching steps 

Of one well known to me ! 

There was no trembling in my voice. 

No blush upon my cheek. 
No lustrous sparkle in my eyes, 

Of hope, or joy, to speak ; 
But, oh ! my spirit burned within, 

My heart beat full and fast ! 
He came not nigh — he went away — 

And then my joy was past. 

And yet my comrades marked it not : 

My voice was still the same ; 
They saw me smile ; and o'er my face 

No signs of sadness came. 
They little knew my hidden thoughts ; 

And they will never know 
The aching anguish of my heart, 

The bitter burninaf woe ! 



Acton. 



169 



THE MISSIONARY. 

Plough, vessel, plough the British main, 
Seek the free ocean's wider plain ; 
Leave English scenes and English skies. 
Unbind, dissever English ties ; 
Bear me to chmes remote and strange, 
Where altered life, fast-following change, 
Hot action, never-ceasing toil. 
Shall stir, turn, dig, the spirit's soil ; 
Fresh roots shall plant, fresh seed shall sow, 
Till a new garden there shall grow. 
Cleared of the weeds that fill it now, — 
Mere human love, mere selfish yearning. 
Which, cherished, would arrest me yet. 
I grasp the plough, there's no returning, 
Let me, then, struggle to forget. 

But England's shores are yet in view. 
And England's skies of tender blue 
Are arched above her guardian sea. 
I cannot yet Remembrance flee ; 
I must again, then, firmly face 
That task of anguish, to retrace. 
Wedded to home — I home forsake. 
Fearful of change — I changes make ; 
Too fond of ease — I plunge in toil ; 
Lover of calm — I seek turmoil : 



170 THE MISSIONARY. 

Nature and hostile Destiny- 
Stir in my heart a conflict wild ; 
And long and fierce the war will be 
Ere duty both has reconciled. 

What other tie yet holds me fast 

To the divorced, abandoned past ? 

Smouldering, on my heart's altar lies 

The fire of some great sacrifice. 

Not yet half quenched. The sacred steel 

But lately struck my carnal will. 

My hfe-long hope, first joy and last, 

What I loved well, and clung to fast ; 

What I wished wildly to retain. 

What I renounced with soul-felt pain ; 

What — when I saw it, axe-struck, perish — 

Left me no joy on earth to cherish ; 

A man bereft — yet sternly now 

I do confirm that Jephtha vow ; 

Shall I retract, or fear, or flee ? 

Did Christ, when rose the fatal tree 

Before him, on Mount Calvary? 

'Twas a long fight, hard fought, but won. 

And what I did was justly done. 

Yet, Helen ! from thy love I turned, 
When my heart most for thy heart burned ; 
I dared thy tears, I dared thy scorn — 
Easier the death-pang had been borne. 



THE MISSIONARY. 171 

Helen ! thou mightst not go with me, 

I could not — dared not stay for thee ! 

I heard, afar, in bonds complain 

The savage from beyond the main ; 

And that wild sound rose o'er the cry 

Wrung out by passion's agony ; 

And even when, with the bitterest tear 

I ever shed, mine eyes were dim. 

Still, with the spirit's vision clear, 

I saw Hell's empire, vast and grim, 

Spread on each Indian river's shore. 

Each realm of Asia covering o'er. 

There, the weak, trampled by the strong. 

Live but to suffer — hopeless die ; 

There pagan-priests, whose creed is Wrong, 

Extortion, Lust, and Cruelty, 

Crush our lost race — and brimming fill 

The bitter cup of human ill ; 

And I — who have the healing creed. 

The faith benign of Mary's Son ; 

Shall I behold my brother's need 

And, selfishly, to aid him shun ? 

I — who upon my mother's knees. 

In childhood, read Christ's written word. 

Received his legacy of peace. 

His holy rule of action heard ; 

I— in whose heart the sacred sense 

Of Jesus' love was early felt ; 

Of his pure full benevolence. 

His pitying tenderness for guilt ; 



172 THE MISSIONARY. 

His shepherd-care for wandering sheep, 

For all weak, sorrowing, trembling things, 

His mercy vast, his ^^nssion deep 

Of anguish for man's sufferings ; 

I — schooled from childhood in such lore — 

Dared I draw back or hesitate. 

When called to heal the sickness sore 

Of those far off and desolate ? 

Dark, in the reahn and shades of Death, 

Nations and tribes and empires lie. 

But even to them the light of Faith 

Is breaking on their sombre sky : 

And be it mine to bid them raise 

Their drooped heads to the kindling scene. 

And know and hail the sunrise blaze 

Which heralds Christ the Nazarene. 

I know how Hell the veil will spread 

Over their brows and filmy eyes. 

And earthward crush the lifted head 

That would look up and seek the skies ; 

I know what war the fiend will wage 

Against that soldier of the cross, 

W^ho comes to dare his demon-rage, 

And work his kingdom shame and loss. 

Yes, hard and terrible the toil 

Of him who steps on foreign soil, 

Resolved to plant the gospel vine. 

Where tyrants rule and slaves repine ; 

Eager to lift Religion's light 



THE MISSIONARY. 

Where thickest shades of mental night 

Screen the false god and fiendish rite ; 

Reckless that missionary blood, 

Shed in wild wilderness and wood, 

Has left, upon the unblest air, 

The man's deep moan — the martyr's prayer. 

I know my lot — I only ask 

Power to fulfil the glorious task ; 

Wilhng the spirit, may the flesh 

Strength for the day receive afresh. 

May burning sun or deadly wind 

Prevail not o'er an earnest mind ; 

May torments strange or direst death 

Nor trample truth, nor baffle faith. 

Though such blood-drops should fall from me 

As fell in old Gethsemane, 

Welcome the anguish, so it gave 

More strength to work — more skill to save. 

And, oh ! if brief must be my time. 

If hostile hand or fatal clime 

Cut short my course — still o'er my grave. 

Lord, may thy harvest whitening wave. 

So I the culture may begin. 

Let others thrust the sickle in ; 

If but the seed will faster grow, 

May my blood water what I sow ! 

What ! have I ever trembling stood. 
And feared to give to God that blood ? 

8* 



173 



174 THE OLD STOIC. 

What ! has the coward love of Hfe 
Made me to shrink from the righteous strife ? 
Have human passions, human fears 
Severed me from those Pioneers, 
Whose task is to march first, and trace 
Paths for the progress of our race ? 
It has been so ; but grant me, Lord, 
Now to stand steadfast by thy word ! 
Protected by salvation's helm. 
Shielded by faith — with truth begirt, 
To smile w^hen trials seek to whelm, 
And stand 'mid testing fires unhurt ! 
Hurling hell's strongest bulwarks down, 
Even when the last pang thrills my breast, 
When Death bestows the Martyr's crown. 
And calls me into Jesus' rest. 
Then for my ultimate reward — 
Then for the world-rejoicing word — 
The voice from Father — Spirit — Son : 
" Servant of God, well hast thou done !" 



CuRRER. 



THE OLD STOIC. 

Riches I hold in hght esteem ; 

And Love I laugh to scorn ; 
And lust of f\\me was but a dream 

That vanished with the morn : 



FLUCTUATIONS. 175 

And if I pray, the only prayer 

That moves my lips for me 
Is, " Leave the heart that now I bear, 

And give me liberty !" 

Yes, as my swift days near their goal, 

'Tis all that I implore ; ^ 

In life and death, a chainless soul, 
With courage to endure. 

Ellis. 



FLUCTUATIONS. 

What though the Sun had left my sky ; 

To save me from despair 
The blessed Moon arose on high, 

And shone serenely there. 

I watched her, with a tearful gaze, 

Rise slowly o'er the hill. 
While through the dim horizon's haze 

Her light gleamed faint and chill. 

I thought such wan and lifeless beams 

Could ne'er my heart repay, 
For the bright sun's most transient gleams 

That cheered me through the day : 

But as above that mist's control 
She rose, and brighter shone, 



176 FLUCTUATIONS. 

I felt her light upon my soul ; 
But now — that Hght is gone ! 

Thick vapours snatched her from my sight, 

And I was darkling left, 
All in the cold and gloomy night, 

Of Hght and hope bereft : 

Until, methought, a little star 
Shone forth with trembHng ray. 

To cheer me with its hght afar — 
But that, too, passed away. 

Anon, an earthly meteor blazed 
The gloomy darkness through ; 

I smiled, yet trembled while I gazed — 
But that soon vanished too ! 

And darker, drearier fell the night 

Upon my spirit then ; — 
But what is that faint strugghng light ? 

Is it the Moon aorain ? 



o' 



Kind Heaven ! increase that silvery gleam, 

And bid these clouds depart, 
And let her soft celestial beam 

Restore my fainting heart ! 

Acton. 



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UNITED STATES EXPLORING EXPEDITION. 



THE NARRATIVE OF THE 

UNITED STATES EXPLORING EXPEDITION, 

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THE AMERICAN ENCYCLOPAEDIA. 

BROUGHT UP TO 1847. 



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SUPPLEMENTARY VOLUME (THE FOURTEENTH), 

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In one large octavo volume of over 650 double columned pages. 

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important addition to the department of Biography, the general progress of society, 
&c, &UC."— Albany Argus. 



LEA AND BLANCHARD's PUBLICATIONS. 

CAMPBELL'S LORD CHANCELLORS. 

JUST PUBLISHED. 



LIVES OF THE LORD CHANCELLORS AND KEEPERS OF 
THE GREAT SEAL OF ENGLAND, 

FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO THE REIGN OF KING GEORGE IV., 

BY JOHN LORD CAMPBELL, A.M., F.R.S.E. 

First Series, forming three neat volumes in demy octavo, extra cloth. 

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THE SECOND SERIES WILL SHORTLY FOLLOW IN FOUR VOLUMES TO MATCH. 

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a high intellectual order." — Inquirer. 

MURRAY'S ENCYCLOP/EDIA OF GEOGRAPHY. 



THE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF GEOGRAPHY, 



COMPRISING 

A COMPLETE DESCRIPTION OF THE EARTH, PHYSICAL, STA- 
TISTICAL, CIVIL, AND POLITICAL. 

EXHIBITING 

ITS RELATION TO THE HEAVENLY BODIES, ITS PHYSICAL STRUCTURE, THE 

NATURAL HISTORY OF EACH COUNTRY, AND IHE INDUSTRY, 

COMMERCE, POLITICAL INSTITUTIONS, AND CIVIL 

AND SOCIAL STATE OF ALL NATIUN.S. 

BY HUGH MURRAY, F.R.S.E,, & c. 

Assisted in Botanv by Professor HOOKER — Zoolosy, &c., by W. W. SWAINSON — Astronomy 
&c., by Professor WALLACE — Geology, Ac, by Professor JAMESON. 

REVISED, WITH ADDITIONS, 

BY THOMAS G. BRADFORD. 

THE WHOLE BROUGHT UP, BY A SUPPLEMENT, TO 1843. 

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best style. 



LEA AND BLANCHARD S PUBLICATIONS. 



STRICKLAND'S QUEENS OF ENGLAND. 



A NEW AND ELEGANT EDITION 

OF 

LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND, 

FROM THE NORMAN CONaUEST; 
WITH ANECDOTES OF THEIR COURTS, NOW FIRST PUBLISHED FROM 
OFFICIAL RECORDS AND OTHER AUTHENTIC DOCU- 
MENTS, PRIVATE AS WELL AS PUBLIC. 

NEW EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS AND CORKECTIONS. 

BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 

Forming a handsome series in crown octavo, beautifully printed with 

large type on fine paper, done up in rich extra crimson cloth, 

and sold at a cheaper rate than the foimer editions. 

Volume One, of this edition, contains Volumes I., II., and III., of the 
duodecimo edition; Volume Two, embraces Volumes IV. and V.; Volume 
Three, Volumes VI. and VII.; Volume Four, Volumes VIII. and IX.; 
and Volume Five will contain Volumes X. and XI. The whole will thus 
form an elegant set of one of the most popular histories of the day. The pub- 
lishers have gone to much expense in preparing this from the revised and 
improved London edition, to meet the frequent inquiries for the " Lives 
of the Q,ueens of England," in better style, larger type, and finer paper 
than has heretofore been accessible to readers in this country. Any volume 
of this edition sold separately. 

A few copies of the duodecimo edition still on hand. Ten volumes are 
now ready, in fancy paper, or neat green extra cloth. 



JUST PUBLISHED, 

•yrOlMTJTaH TUN: 

CONTAINING 

MARY OF MODENA, AND MARY II. 

Price 75 cents in fancy paper.— Also, in extra green cloth. 

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tory." — Times. 

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almost the wildness of romance, will constitute available addition to our biogra- 
phical literature." — Morning Herald. 

" A valuable contribution to historical knowledge, to young persons especially. It 
(»ntains a mass of every kind of historical matter of interest, which industry and 
research could collect. We have derived much entertainment and instruction from 
tlie work." — Athenmim. 

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taken to make it both interesting and valuable." — Literary Gazette. 

"A charming work — full of interest, at once serious and pleasing." — Monsieur 
Guizot. 

" A most charming biographical memoir. We conclude by expressing our unquali- 
fied opinion, that we know of no more valuable contribution to modern histoiy than 
this ninth volimie of Miss Strickland's Lives of the Q\xeens."—Morniny Herald. 



LEA AND BLANCHARD S PUBLICATIONS. 

DON QUIXOTE-ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 

NEARLY READY. 

DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA. 

TR.VNSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF 

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA, 

BY CHARLES JARVIS, ESQ. 

CAREFULLY REVISED AND CORRECTED, WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR 
AND A NOTICE OF HIS WORKS. 

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS, 

BY TONY JOHANNOT. 
In two beautifully printed volumes, crown octavo, rich extra crimson cloth. 
The publishers are happy in presenting to the admirers of Don Quixote au edition 
of that work in some degree worthy of its reputation and popularity. The want of 
such a one has long been felt in this country, and in presenting this, they have oidy 
to express their hope that it may meet the numerous demands and inquiries. The 
translation is that by Jarvis, which is acknowledged superior in both force and fidelity 
to all others. It has in some few instances been slightly altered to adapt it better to 
modern readers, or occasionally to suit it to the inimitable designs of Tony Johannot. 
These latter are admitted to be the only successful pictorial exponents of the wit and 
humour of Cervantes, and a choice selection of them have been engraved in the best 
manner. A copious memoir of the author and his works has been added by the 
editor. The volumes are printed in large clear type, on fine paper, and handsomely 
bound, and the whole is confidently offered as worthy the approbation of all readers 
of this imperishable romance. 

PICCIOLA. 

ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 

PICCIOLA, THE PRIsiNER OF FENESTRELLA; 

OR, CAPTIVITY CAPTIVE. 
BY X. B. SAINTINE. 

A NEW EDITION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 

In one elegant duodecimo volume, large type, and fine paper ; price in fancy 
covers 50 cents, or in beautiful extra crimson cloth. 

" Perhaps the most beautiful and touching work of fiction ever written, with the 
exception of Undine." — Atlas. 

" The same publishers have shown their patriotism, common sense, and good taste 
by putting forth their fourth edition of this work, with a set, of very beautiful engraved 
embellishments. There never was a book which better deseived the compliment. 
It is one of greatly superior merit to Paul and Virginia, and we believe it is destined 
to surpass that popular work of St. Pierre in popularity. It is better suited to the ad- 
vanced ideas of the present age, and possesses peculiar moral charms in which Paul 
and Virginia is deficient. St. Pierre's work derived its popularity from its bold attack 
on feudal prejudices; Saintine's strikes deeper, and assails the secret infidebty which 
is the bane of modern society, in its stronghold. A thousand editions of Picciola will 
not be too many for its merit." — Lady's Book. 

"This is a little gem of its kind — a beautiful conceit, beautifully unfolded and ap- 
plied. The style and plot of this truly charming story require no criticism ; we will 
only express the wish that those who rely on works of fiction for their intellectual food, 
may always find those as pure in language and beautiful in moral as Picciola."— Aew 
York Review. 



LEA AND BLANCH ARDS PUBLICATIONS. 



HAWKER AND PO_RTER ON SHOOTING. 

IIVSTRUCTIONS TO YOUNG SPORTSJMEN 

IN-ALL THAT RELATES TO GUNS AND SHOOTING. 
BY LIEUT. COL. P. HA"WKER. 

FROM THE ENLARGED AND IMPROVED NINTH LONDON EDITION, 

TO WHICH IS ADDED THE HUNTING AND SHOOTING OP NORTH AME- 
RICA, WITH DESCRIPTIONS OF ANIMALS AND BIRDS, CARE- 
FULLY COLLATED FROM AUTHENTIC SOURCES. 

BY W. T. PORTER, ESQ., 

EDITOR OF THE NEW YORK SPIRIT OF THE TIMES. 

In one large octavo volume, rich extra cloth, with numerous illustrations. 

" Here is a 600^, a hand-book, or rather a text-book — one that contains the whole 
routine of the science. It is the Primer, the Lexicon, and the Homer. Everything 
is here, from the minutest portion of a gun-lock, to a dead Buffalo. The sportsman, 
who reads this book understaudingly, may pass an examination. He will know the 
science, and may give advice to others. Every sportsman, and sportsmen are plenti- 
ful, should own this work. It should be a " vade mecum." He should be examined 
on its contents, and estimated by his abilities to answer. We have not been without 
treatises on the art, but hitherto they have not descended into all the minutiee of 
equipments and qualifications to proceed to the completion. This work supphes 
deficiencies, and completes the sportsman's library." — U. S. Gazette. 

" No man in the country that we wot of is so well calculated as our friend of the 
'Spirit' for the task he has undertaken, and the result of his labours has been that he 
has turned out a work wliicli should be in the hands of every man in the land who owns 
a double-barrelled gun." — N. 0. Picayune. 

" A volume .splendidly printed and bound, and embellished with numerous beautiful 
engravings, which will doubtless be in great demand. No sportsman, indeed, ought 
to be without it, while the general reader will find in its pages a fund of curious and 
useful Mormalion."— Richmond W?ug. 



YOUATT O^THE DOG. 

THU DOG, 

BY WILLIAM YOUATT, 

Author of "The Horse," &c. 
WITH NUMEROUS AND BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATIONS. 
EDITED BY E. J. LEWIS, M. D., &c., &c., 
In one beautifully printed volume, crown octavo. 
LIST OF PLATES. 
Head of Bloodhound —Ancient Greyhounds— The Thibet Dog— The Dingo, or New 
Holland Dog— The Danish or Dalmatian Dog— The Hare Indian Dog —The Grey- 
hound—The Grecian Greyhound— Blenheims and Cockers— Tlie Water Spaniel — 
The Poodle —The Alpine Spaniel or Beniardine Dog— The Newfoundland Dog — 
The Esquimaux Dog— The English Sheep Dog— The Scotch Sheep Dog— The Beagle 
—The Harrier— The Foxhound— Plan of Goodwood Kennel— The Southern Hoiiiid 
—The Setter— The Pointer— The Bull Dog— The Mastiff- The Terrier— Skeleton 
of the Dog— Teeth of tiie Dog at seven different ages. 

" Mr. Youatt's work is invaluable to the student of canine history; it is full of en- 
tertaining and instructive matter for the general reader. To the sportsman it com- 
mends itself by the large amount of useful information in reference to his pocuhar 
pursuits which it embodies — information which he cannot find elsewhere in so con- 
venient and accessible a form, and with so reliable an authority to entitle it to his 
consideration. The modest preface which Dr. Lewis has made to the American edi- 
tion of this work scarcely does justice to the additional value he has imparted to it ; 
and the publishers are entitled to great credit for the handsome manner ia which 
they have got it up."— North American. 



LEA A^"D BLANCHARD S PUBLICATIONS. 



BOY'S TREASURY OF SPORTS. 

THE BOY'S TREASURY OF SPORTS, PASTIMES 
AND RECREATIONS. 

WITH FOUR HUNDRED ILLUSTRATIONS. 
BY SAMUEL WILLIAMS. 

IS NOW READY. 

In one very neat volume, bound in extra crimson cloth; handsomely printed 

and illustrated with engravings in the first style of art, and 

containing about six hundred and fifty articles. 

A present for all seasons. 

PREFACE. 

This illustrated Manual of " Sports, Pastimes, and Recreations," has been prepared 
with especial regard to the Health, Exercise, and Rational Enjoyment of the young 
readers to whoni it is addressed. 

Everv variety of commendable Recreation will be found in the following pajes. 
First, you have the little Toys of the Nursery ; the Tops and JIarbles of the Play- 
ground ; and the Balls of the Play-room, or the smooth Lawn. 

Then, you have a number of Pastimes that serve to gladden the fireside ; to Ught 
up many faces right joyfully, and make the p;ir]our re-echo with mirth. 

Next, come the Exercising Sports of the Field, the Green, and the Play-ground; 
followed by the noble and truly Enghsli game of Cricket. 

Gymnastics are next admitted; then, the delightful recreation of Swimming; and 
the healthful sport of Skating. 

Archery, once the pride of England, is then detailed ; and very properly followed 
by Instructions in the graceful accompUshment of Fencing, and the manly and en- 
livening exercise ot Riding. 

Angling, the pastime of childhood, boyhood, manhood, and old age, is next de- 
scribed ; and by attention to the instructions here laid down, the lad with a stick 
and a string may soon become an expert Angler. 

Keeping Animals is a favourite pursuit of boyhood. Accordingly, we have described 
how to rear the Rabbit, the Squirrel, the Dormouse, the Guinea Pi?, the Pigeon, and 
the Silkworm. A long chapter is adapted to the rearing of Soiig Birds ; the several 
varieties of which, and their respective cages, are next described. And here we may 
hint, that kindness to Animals invariably denotes an excellent disposition ; for, to jiet a 
little creature one hour, and to treat it harshly the next, marks a capricious if not a cruel 
temper. Humanity is a jewel, which every boy should be proud to wear in his breast. 

We now approach the more sedate amusements — as Draughts and Chess ; two of 
the noblest exercises of the ingenuity of the human mind. Dominoes and Bagatelle 
follow. With a knowledge of these four games, who would pass a dull hour in the 
dreariest day of winter ; or who would sit idly by the fire ? 

Amusements in Arithmetic, harmless Legerdemain, or sleight-of-hand, and Tricks 
with Cards, will delight many a family circle, when the business of the day is over, 
and the book is laid aside. 

Although the present volume is a book of amusements. Science has not been ex- 
cluded from its pages. And why should it be ? when Science is as entertaining as a 
fairy tale. The chanees we read of in little nursery-books are not more amusing 
than the changes in Chemistry, Optics, Electricity, Magnetism, &c. By understanding 
these, you may almost become a little Magician. 

Toy Balloons and Paper Fireworks, (or Fireworks without Fire,) come next. Then 
follow Instructions for Modelling in Card-Board; so that you may build for yourself 
a palace or a carriage, and, in short, make for yourself a little paper world. 

Puzzles and Paradoxes, Enigmas and Riddles, and Talking with the Fingers, next 
make up plenty of exercise for '• Guess," and " Guess again." And as you have the 
" Keys" in your own hand, you may keep your friends in suspense, and make yourself 
as mysterious as the Sphynx. 

A chapter of Miscellanies — useful and amusing secrets— winds up the volume. 

The "Treasury" contains upwards of four hundred Engravings ; so that it is not only 
a collection of " secrets worth knowing," but it is a book of pictures, as full of pruUs 
as a Christmas pudding is of plums. 

It may be as well to mention that the " Treasury" holds many new games that 
have never before been printed in a book of this kind. The old games have been 
described afresh. Thus it is, altogether, a new book. 

And now we take leave, wishing you many hours, and days, and weeks of enjw- 
ment over these pages ; and we hope that you may be as happy as this book is brimful 
of amusement. 



LEA AND BLANCHARd's PUBLICATIONS. 

YOUATT AND SKINNER'S 
STANDARD WORJM)N THE HORSE. 

THE HORSE, 
BY WILLIAM YOUATT. 

ANEW EDITION, WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 

TOGETHER WITH A 

GEITERiLIi mSTORV OF THE HORSE; 

A DISSERTATION ON 

THE AIVEERICAN TROTTING HORSE, 

HOW TRAINED AND JOCKEYED. 
AN ACCOUNT OF HIS REMARKABLE PERFORMANCES ; 

AND 

AN ESSAY ON THE ASS AND THE MULE, 
BY J. S. SKINNER, 

Assistant Post-Mastev-General, and Editor of the Turf Re^ster. 
This edition of Youatt's well-known and standard work on the Management, Dis- 
eases, and Treatment of the Horse, has already obtained such a wide circulation 
throughout the country, that the Publishers need say nothing to attract; to it the atten- 
tion and confidence of all who keep Horses, or are interested in their improvRment. 

C L A T E R^OFyTu AT r^^ C T R . 

EVERY MAN HIS OWN CATTLE DOCTOR! 

CONTAINING THE CAUSES, SYMPTOMS, AND TREATMENT OF ALL DIS- 
EASES INCIDENT TO OXEN, SHEEP, AND SWINE; 
AND A SKETCH OF THE 
ANATOIVIY AND PHYSIOIiOGY OF NEAT CATTLE. 
BY FRANCIS CLATER. 

EDITED, REVISED, AND ALMOST RE- WRITTEN, BY 

WILLIAM YOUATT, AUTHOR OF "THE HORSE." 

WITH NUMEROUS ADDITIONS, 

EMBRACING AN ESSAY ON THE USE OF OXEN AND THE IMPROVEMENT 

IN THE BREED OF SHEEP, 

BY J. S. SKINNE^R. 

WITH NUMEROUS CUTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS. 
In one I2mo. volume, cloth. 
" As its title would import, it is a most valuable work, and should be in the hands of 
every American farmer; and we feel proud in saying, that the value of the work has 
been greatly enhanced by the contributions of Nfr. Skinner. Clater and Youatt are 
names treasured by the farming; communities of Europe as household-g:ods ; nor does 
that of Skinner deserve to be less esteemed in America." — American Farmer. 



CLATER'S FARRIER 



EVERY MAN HIS OWN FARRIER; 

CONTAINING THE CAUSES, SYMPTOMS, AND MOST APPROVED METHODS 
OF CURE OF THE DISEASES OP HORSES. 

BY FRANCIS CLATER, 
Author of "Every Man his own Cattle Doctor," 

AND HIS SON, JOHN CLATER. 

FIRST AMERICAN FROM THE TWENTY-EIGHTH LONDON EDITION. 

WITH NOTES AND ADDITIONS, 

BY J. S. SKINNER. 

In one 12mo. volume, cloth. 



LEA AND BLANCHARd's PUBLICATIONS. 



POPULAR SCIENCE 



PHILOSOPHY IN SPORT, MADE SCIENCE 
IN EARNEST; 

BEING AN ATTEMPT TO ILLUSTRATE THE FIRST PRINCI- 
PLES OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, BY THE AID 
OF THE POPULAR TOYS AND 
SPORTS OF YOUTH. 

FROM THE SIXTH AND GREATLY IMPROVED LONDON EDITION. 

In one very neat royal 18mo. volume, with nearly one hundred illustrations 
on wood. Fine extra crimson cloth. 

"Messrs. Lea & Blanchard have issued, in a beautiful manner, a handsome book, 
called ' Philosophy in Sport, made Science in Earnest.' This is an admirable attempt 
to illustrate the first principles of Natural Philosophy, by the aid of the popular toys 
and sports of youth. Useful mformation is conveyed in an easy, grraceful, yet dignified 
manner, and rendered easy to the simplest understanding. The book is an admirable 
one, and must meet with universal favour." — N. Y. Evening Mirror. 



ENDLESS AMUSEMENT. 

JUST ISSUED. 



ENDLESS AMUSEMENT, 

A COLLECTION OF 

NEARLY FOUR HUNDRED ENTERTAINING EXPERIMENTS IN 
VARIOUS BRANCHES OF SCIENCE, 

INCLUDING 

ACOUSTICS, ARITHMETIC, CHEMISTRY, ELECTRICITY, HYDRAULICS, HY- 
DROSTATICS, MAGNETISM, MECHANICS, OPTICS, WONDERS OF 
THE AIR PUMP, ALL THE POPULAR TRICKS AND 
CHANGES OF THE CARDS, &c., <kc. 

TO WHICH IS ADDED, 

A 003VCPLETE SYSTElVr OF PYROTECHNT, 

OR THE ART OF MAKING FIRE-WORKS: 

THE WHOLE SO CLEARLY EXPLAINED AS TO BE WITHIN REACH OF 

THE MOST LIMITED CAPACITY. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 

FROM THE SEVENTH LONDON EDITION. 

In one neat royal 18mo. volume, fine extra crimson cloth. 

" It contains everything that can please the grave or the gay. It is ' endless amuse 
ment,' and the publishers might have added, instruction. What a help to a dull 
gathering, or what an able adjunct to a chddren's party ! It may be introduced to the 
scientific or to the fannly circle, and to each it will give instruction and pleasure. It 
is filled with illustrations. We shall give extracts from it occasionally."— iota's 
Book. 



POPULAR SCIENCE. 



AKSTEB'S ANCIENT WORLD. 

JUST ISSUED. 



THE ANCIENT WORLD, OR, PICTURESQUE SKETCHES 
OF CREATION, 

BY D. T. ANSTED, M.A., F.R.S, F.G.S., &c. 

PROFESSOR OF GEOLOGY, IN KING'S COLLEGE, LONDON. 

In one very neat volume, fine extra cloth, with about One Hundred 
and Fifty Illustrations. 

The object of this work is to present to the general reader the chief results of Geo- 
logical investigation in a simple and comprehensive manner. The author has avoided 
all minute details of geological formations and particular observations, and has en- 
deavoured as far as possible to present striking views of the wonderful results of the 
science, divested of its mere technicalities. The work is printed in a handsome man- 
ner, with numerous illustrations, and forms a neat volume for the centre table. 

" As a resume of what is at present known on the subject of fossil remains, it is worthy 
to be a companion to the author's ' Descriptive Geology,' a work of which we have 
spoken in the highest terms. This volume is illustrated in the style of all Van Voorst's 
Natural History works, and that is sufficient recommendation. Our extracts will 
convey a notion of the style of the work, which is, like all that Professor Ansted has 
written, clear and pointed.— Athenceum. 

CHEMISTRY OF THE FOUR SEASONS, 

SPRING, SUMMER, AUTUMN, AIND WINTER. 

AN ESSAY, PRINCIPALLY CONCERNING NATURAL PHENOMENA, ADMIT- 
TING OF INTERPRETATION BY CHEMICAL SCIENCE. AND 
ILLUSTRATING PASSAGES OF SCRIPIURE. 

B7 THOSIAS GHIFFITHS, 

Professor of Chemistry in the Medical College of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, <&c. 

In one large royal 12mo. volume, with many Wood-Cuts, extra cloth. 
" Chemistry is assuredly one of the most useful and interesting of the natural sci- 
ences. Chemical changes meet us at every step, and during every season, the winds 
and the rain, the heat and the frosts, each have their peculiar and appropriate phe- 
nomena. And those who have hitherto remained insensible to these changes and 
unmoved amid such remarkable, and often startling results, will lose their apathy 
upon reading the Chemistry of the 'Four Seasons,' and be prepared to enjoy the 
highest intellectual pleasures. Conceived in a happy spirit, and written with taste 
and elegance, the essay of Mr. Griffiths cannot fail to receive the admiration of culti- 
vated minds ; and those who have looked less carefully into nature's beauties, will 
find themselves led on step by step, until they realize a new intellectual being. Such 
works, we believe, exert a happy influence over society, and hence we hope that the 
present one may be extensively read."— TAt' Western Lancet. 



LEA AND BLANCHARD S PUBLICATIONS. 



POP ULAR SCIE NCE. 

KIRBY AND SPENCE'S ENTOMOLOGY, FOR POPULAR USE. 

AN INTRODUCTION TO ENTOlVrOIaOGY, 

OR, ELEMBNTS OF THE NATURAL HI-;TORY OF INSECTS; COMPRISING AN AC- 
COUNT OF NOXIOUS AND USEFUL INSECIS, OF THEIR METAMORPHOSES, 
FOOD, STRATAGEMS. HABHATIONS, SOCIETIES, MOTIONS, 
NOIiES, HYRERNA riON, INSTINCT, &c., &c. 

Witli Plates, Plain or Colored. 

BYW. KIRBY, M.A., F.R.S., AND W. SPENOE, ESQ., F.R.S. 

FROM THE SIXTH LONDON EDITION, WHICH WAS CORRECTED AND MUCH ENLARGED. 

In one large octavo volume, extra cloth. 

" We have been greatly interested in running over the pages of this treatise. There 
is scarcely, in the wide range of natural science, a more interesting or instructive 
study than that of insecfs, or one that is calculated to excite more curiosity or wonder, 

" The popular form of letters is adopted by the authors in imparting a knowledge of 
the subject, winch renders the work peculiarly lifted for our district school libraries, 
which are open to all ages and classes." — HunCs Merchants' Magazine. 

JOHNSON AND LANDRETH ON FRUIT, KITCHEN, AND 
FLOWERJARDENING. 

A DICTION ARir OP MODERN GiLRDENING-, 

BY GEORGE WILLIAM JOHNSON, ESQ. 

Author of the " Principles of Practical Gardening," " The Gardener's Almanac," &c. 

WITH ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY WOOD-CUTS. 
EDITED, WITH NUMEROUS ADDITIONS, BY DAVID LANDRETH, OF PHILADELPHIA, 
In one large royal duodi^imo volume, extra cloth, of nearly Six Hundred 
and Fifty double columned Pages. 
This edition has been greatly altered from the original. Many articles of little inte- 
rest to Americans liave' been curtailed or wholly omitted, and much new matter, 
with numeroas ilhistrations, added, especially with respect to the varieties of fruit 
which experience has shown to be peculiarly adapted to our climate. Still, tiie editor 
admits that he has only followed in the path so admirably marked out by Mr. John- 
son, to whom the chief merit of the work beloiisrs. It has been an oliject with the 
editor and publishers to increase its popular character, thereby adapting it to the 
larser class of horticultural readers in this country, and they trust it will prove what 
they have desired it to be, an Encyclopaedia of Gardening, if not of Rural Affairs, so 
condensed and at such a price as to be witliin reach of nearly all whom those subjects 
interest. 

GRAHAME'S COLONIAL HISTORY. 

HISTOEY OF THE UNITED STATES. 

FROM THE PLANTATION OF THE BRITISH COLONIES TILL 

THEIR ASSUMPTION OF INDEPENDENCE. 

SECOND AMERICAN EDITION, ENLARGED AND AMENDED, 

WITH A MEMOIR BY PRESIDENT QUINCY. 

IN TWO LARGE OCTAVO VOLUMES, EXTRA CLOTH, WITH A PORTRAIT. 

This work having assumed the position of a standard history of this country, the 
publishers have been induced to issue an edition in smaller size and at a less cost, that 
its circulation mav be commensurate with its merits. It is now considered as the 
most impartial and trustworthy history that has yet appeared. 

A few copies of the edition in four volumes, on extra fine thick paper, price eight 
dollars, may still be had by gentlemen .desirous of procuring a beautiful work for 
their libranes. 



LEA AND BLANCHARd's PUBLICATIONS. 



SCHOOL BOOKS. 



ARNOTT'S PHYSICS, 



ELEMENTS OF PHYSICS; OR, NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, 

GENERAL AND MEDICAL. 

WRITTEN FOR UNIVERSAL USE, IN PLAIN, OR NON-TECHNICAL LANGUAGE. 

BYNIELL ARNOTT, IVr.D. 

A NEW EDITION, BY ISAAC HAYS, M. D. 

Complete in one octavo volume, with nearly two hundred wood-cuts. 

This standard work has been loni? and favourably known as one of the best popular 
expositions of the interesting science it treats of. It is extensively used in many of the 
first seminaries. 



ELEMENTARY CHEMISTRY, THEORETICAL 
AND PRACTICAL, 

BY GEORGE F O W N E S, Ph. D., 

Chemical Lecturer in the Middlesex Hospital Medical School, &c., &c. 
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 

EDITED, WITH ADDITIONS, 
BY ROBERT BRIDGES, M.D., 

Professor of General and Pharmaceutical Chemistry in the Philadelphia College of 

Pharmacy, &.C., &c. 

S EC ND A M ER I C A N EDITION. 

In one large duodecimo volume, sheep, or extra cloth, with nearly 
two hundred wood-cuts. 

The character of this work is such as to recommend it to all colleges and academies 
in want of a text-book. It is fully brought up to the day, containing all tlie late views 
and discoveries that have so entirely changed the face of the science, and it is com- 
pletely illustrated with very numerous wood engravings, explanatory of all the diffe- 
rent processes and forms of apparatus. Though strictly scientific, it is written with 
great clearness and simplicity of style, rendering it easy to be comprehended by those 
who are commencing the study. 

It may be hatl well bound in leather, or neatly done up in strong cloth. Its \ovr 
price places it within the reach of all. 

Extract of a letter from Professor Mlhngtan, of William, and Mary College, Va. 
*' I have perused the book with much pleasure, and find it a most admirable work ; 
and, to my mind, such a one as is just now much needed in schools and colleges. * * * 
All the books I have met with on chemistry are either too puerile or too erudite, and 
I confess Dr. Fownes' liook seems to be the happiest medium I have seen, and admi- 
rably suited to fill up the hiatus." 

Though this work has been so recently published, it has already been adopted as a 
text-book by a large number of the higlier schools and colleges throughout the country, 
and many of the Medical Institutions. As a work for the upper classes in academies 
and the junior students of colleges, there has been but one opinion expressed concern- 
ing it, and it may now be considered as The Text-Book for the Chemical Student. 



LEA AND BLANCHARD S PUBLICATIONS. 



SCHOOL BOOKS 



BOLMAR'S FRENCH SERIES. 

New editions of the following works, by A. Bolmar, forming, in con- 
nection with " Bolmar's Levizac," a complete series for the acquisition of 
the French language :— 

A SEIiECTION OP ONE HUNDRED PERRIN'S 
FABIiES, 

ACCOMPANIED BY A KEY, 

Ckjntaining the text, a literal and free translation, arranged in such a manner as to 
point out the difference between the French and English idiom, <kc., in 1 vol., 12mo. 

A COIiliECTION OP COIiliOaUIAL PHRASES, 

ON EVERY TOPIC NECESSARY TO MAINTAIN CONVERSATION. 

Arranged under different heads, with numerous remarks on the pecuhar pronuncia- 
tion and uses of various words ; the wiiole so disposed as considerably to facihtate 
the acquisition of a correct pronunciation of the French, in 1 vol., ISmo. 

LES AVENTURES DE TELEaiAQ,UE PAR PENELON, 

In 1 vol., 12mo., accompanied by a Key to the first eight books, in 1 vol , 12mo., con- 
taining, like the Fables, the text, a literal and free translation, intended as a sequel 
to the Fables. Either volume sold separately. 

ALL THE FRENCH VERBS, 

Both regular and irregular, in a small volume. 



BUTLER'S ANCIENT ATLAS. 



JOJK ATImAS of .aiTCIXiNT GEOGR-aPHV, 

BY SAMUEL BUTLER, D. D., 

Late Lord Bishop of Litchfield. 

CONTAINING TWENTY-ONE COLOURED M.\PS, AND A COMPLETE ACCENTOATED 
INDEX. 

In one octavo volume, half-bound. 



BUTLER'S ANCIENT GEOGRAPHY. 

GEOGRAPHIiL CLiASSICA, 

OR THE APPLICATION OF ANCIENT GEdRAPHY TO THE 

CLASSICS, 

BY SAMUEL BUTLER, T. D., F.R.S. 

REVISED BY HIS SON. 

FIFTH AMERICAN, FEOM THE LAST LONDON EDITION. 

WITH QUESTIONS ON THE MAPS, BY JOHN FROST. 
In one duodecuno volume, half-bound, to match the Atlas. 



LEA AND BLANCHARd's PUBLICATIONS. 



SCHOOL BOOKS 



WHITE'S UNIVERSAL HISTOftY, 



LATELY PUBLISHED, 

EXiEMEM-TS OF UZTIVERSAZ. HISTORTr, 

ON A NEW AND SYSTEMATIC PLAN; 

FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES TO THE TREATS OF VIENNA; TO WHICH 

IS ADDED, A SUMMARY OF THE LEADING EVENTS SINCE 

THAT PERIOD, FOK THE USE OF SCHOOLS 

AND PRIVATE STUDENTS. 

BY H. -WHITE, B.A., 

TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

WITH ADDITIONS AND QUESTIONS, 

BY JOHN S. HART, A.M., 

Principal of the Philadelphia High School, and Professor of Moral and Mental Science, &c., &c 

In one volume, large duodecimo, neatly bound with Maroon Backs. 

Tliis work is arranged on a new plan, which is believed to combine the 
advantages of those formerly in use. It is divided into three parts, corre- 
sponding with Ancient, Middle, and Modern History ; which parts are again 
subdivided into centuries, so that the various events are presented in the 
order of time, while it is so arranged that the annals of each country can 
be read consecutively, thus combining the advantages of both the plans 
hitherto pursued in works of this kind. To guide the researches of the stu- 
dent, there will be found numerous synoptical tables, with remarks and 
sketches of literature, antiquities, and manners, at the great chronological 
epochs. 

The additions of the American editor have been principally confined to 
the chapters on the history of this country. The series of questions by him 
will be found of use to those who prefer that system of instruction. For 
those who do not, the publishers have had an edition prepared without the 
questions. 

This work has already passed through several editions, and has been 
introduced into many of the higher Schools and Academies throughout the 
country. From among numerous recommendations which they have re- 
ceived, the publishers annex the following from the Deputy Superintendent 
of Common Schools for New York: 

Secretary's Office, ) State of New York, 

Department of Common Schools. ) Albany, Oct. lith, 1845. 

Messrs. Lea ^ Blanchard : fa 

Gentlemen .—I have examined the copy of " White's Universal History," which you 
were so obliging as to send me, and cheerfully and fully concur in the commendations 
of its value, as a comp!*«hensive and enlightened survey of the Ancient and Modem 
World, which many of tne most competent judges have, as I perceive, already bestowed 
upon it. It appears to mecto be admirably adapted to the purposes of our pubUc 
schools ; and I unhesitatingly approve of its introduction into those seminaries of ele- 
mentary instruction. Very respectfully, your obedient servant, 

SAMUEL S. RANDALL, 
Deputy Superintendent Common Schools. 



SCHOOL BOOKS. 



BIRD'S NATURAL PHILOSOPHY. 

NEARLY READY. 



JUm^JHIENTS of 27i^TUHilZ« FHH.OSOFZZ'S', 

BEING AJT EXPERIMEXTAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 

PHYSICAL SCIENCES. 

ILLUSTRATED WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED W00D-CDT3. 

BY GOLDING BIRD, M.D., 

Assistant Physician to Guy's Hospital. 

FROM THE THIRD LONDON EDITION. 

In one neat volume. 

" By the appearance of Dr. Bird's work, the student has now all that he can desire 
in one neat, concise, and well-digested volume. The elements of natural philosophy 
are explained in very simple language, and illustrated by numerous wood-cuts." — 
Medical Gazette. 

" A volume of useful and beautiful instruction for the young." — Literary Gazette. 

" We should like to know that Dr. Bird's book was associated with every boys' and 
girls' school throughout the kmgdoin." — Medical Gazette. 

" This work marks an advance which has long been wanting in our system of in- 
struction. Mr. Bird has succeeded in producing an elementary work of great merit. 
— Athenceunt. 



HERSCHELL'S ASTRONOMY. 



A TREATISE OZT ASTHON OUtlT, 

BY SIR JOHN F. W. HERSCHELL, F. R. S.. &c. 

WITH NUMEROUS PLATES AND WOOD-CUTS. 

A NEW EDITION, WITH A PREFACE AND A SERIES OF QUESTIONS, 

BY S. C. WALKER. 

In one volume, 12mo. 



BREWSTER'S OPTICS. 



Z: Ii E IVE E IT T S OFOFTICS, 

BY SIR DAVID BREWSTER. 

WITH NOTES AND ADDITIONS, BY A. D. BACHE, LL.D. 

Superintendent of the Coast Survey, &c. 

In one volume, 12mo., with Dumerous wood-cuts. 



LEA AND ELANCHARD-S PUBLICATIONS. 



MULLER'S PHYSICS AND JVIETEOROLOGY. 

^' EARLY K EADY. 

PRINCIPLES OF PHYTrci AND METEOROLOGY, 

BY J. MULLER, 

Professor of Physics at the University of Freiburg. 

ILLUSTRATED WITH NEARLY FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTVT ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD 
AND TWO COLORED PLATES. 

Ill one octavo volume. 
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 

In laying the following: pases before the public, it seems necessarv to state that the 
design of them is to render more easily accessible a greater porUon of the general 
principles of Physics ami Meteorology than is usually to be obtained, without the 
sacrifice of a greater amount of time and labour than most persons can afford, or are 
wiUing to make. The subjects of which this volume treats are very numerous— more 
numerous, in fact, than at first sight it would seem possible to embrace in so small a 
compass The Author has, however, by a system of the most judicious selection and 
condensation, been enabled to introduce all the most important facts and tiieories 
relating to Statics. Hydrostatics, Dynamics, Hydrodynamics, Pneumatics, the Laws 
of the Motions of Waves in general. Sound, the Theory of Musical Notes, the Voice 
and Hearing, Geometrical and Physical 0[)tics, Magnetism, Eleciricily and Galvanism, 
in all their subdivisions. Heat and Meteorology, within the space of an ordinary middle- 
sized volume. Of the manner in which the translator has executed his task, it be- 
hoves him to say nothing ; he has attempted nothing more than a plain, and nearly 
literal version of the original. He cannot, however, conclude this brief introductory 
note without directing the attention of his Readers to the splendid manner in which 
the Publishers have illustrated this volume. 
Aiigtist, 1847. 

" The Physics of MuUer is a work, superb, complete, unique : the greatest want 
known to Enu'lish Science could not have been better supplied. The work is of sur- 
passing interest. The value of this contribution to the scientific records of this 
country may be duly estimated by the fact, that the cost of the original drawings and 
engravings alone has exceeded the sum of 20007." — Lancet. March, 1817. 

"The i)lan adopted by MuUer is simple ; it reminds us of the excellent and popular 
treatise published many years since by Dr. Arnott, but it takes a much wider range 
of subjects. Like it, all the necessary explanations are given in clear and concise 
language, without more than an occasional reference to mathematics; and the trea- 
tise is most abundantly illustrated with well- executed wood engravings. 

"The author has actually contrived to comprise in about five hundred pages, in- 
cluding the space occupied by illustrations. Mechanics, the Laws of Motion. Acoustics, 
Light. Magnetism. Electricity, Galvanism, Electro-Magnetism, Heat, and -Aleteorology. 

*"' Medical practitioners and students, even if they have the means to procure, have 
certainly not the time to study an elaborate treatise in every brancii of science ; and 
the question therefore is, simply, whetiier they are to remain wholly ignorant of such 
subjects, or to make a profitable use of the labours of those who have the liappy art 
of saying or suggesting much in a small space. 

" From ourexnminarion of this volume, we do not hesitate to recommend it to our 
readers as a useful book on a most interesting branch of science. We may remark, 
that the translation is so well executed, that we think the translator is doing himself 
injustice by concealing his name."— Lofjdon Medical Gazette, August, 1847. 

n^RAHAliFsnclliEiiyT R ^^^^^ 

NEARLY READY. 



23 li 1! IVI 25 IT T S OF C HE MI S TR TT, 

INCLUDING- 
THE APPLICATIONS OF THE SCIENCE IN THE ARTS. 

BY T. G-RAHAM, F.R.S., &c. 

SECOND AMERICAN, FROM THE SECOND LONDON EDITION. 

EDITED AND REVISED BY ROBERT BRIDGES, M.D.. 

Professor of Chemistry in the Franklin Medical College, Philadelphia. 
Ill one large octavo volume, with numerous wood-engravings. 
This edition will be found enlarged and improved, so as to be fully brought 
up to a level with the science of the day. 



LEA AND BLANCH ARd's PUBLICATIONS. 



SC HOOL BOOK S. 
SCHMITZAND ZUMPT'S CLASSICAL SERIES. 

VOIiUME I. 

C. JULII C^SARIS, 

COMMENTARII DE BELLO GALLICO. 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND A GEOGRAPHICAL INDEX IN ENGUSH. 

ALSO, A JLAP OF GAUL, A?^D ILLUSTRATIVE ENGRAVINGS. 

In one handsome 18mo. volume, extra cloth. 

This Series has been placed under the editorial management of two emi- 
nent scholars and practical teachers, Dr. Schmitz, Rector of the High School, 
Edinburgh, and Dr. Zumpt, Professor in the University of Berlin, and will 
combine the following advantages : — 

1. A gradually ascending series of School Books on a uniform plan, so as to con- 
stitute within a definite number, a complete Latin Curriculum. 

2. Certain arrangements in the rudimentary volumes, which will insure a fair 
amount of knowledge in Roman hterature to those who are not designed for profes- 
sional life, and who therefore will not require to extend their studies to the advanced 
portion of the series. 

3. The text of each author will be such as has been constituted by the most recent 
collations of manuscripts, and will be prefaced by biographical and critical sketches 
in English, that pupils may be made aware of the character and peculiarities of the 
work they are about to study. 

4. To remove difficulties, and sustain an interest in the text, explanatory notes in 
English will be placed at the foot of each page, and such comparisons drawn as may 
serve to unite the history of the past with the realities of modern times. 

5. The works, generally, will be embellished with maps and illustrative engravings, 
—accompaniments which will greatly assist the student's comprehension of the na- 
ture of the countries and leading circumstances described. 

6. The respective volumes ^^•ill be issued at a price considerably less than that usu- 
ally charged ; and as the texts are from the most eminent sources, and the whole se- 
ries constructed upon a determinate plan, the practice of issuing new and altered 
editions, which is complained of ahke by teachers and pupils, will be altogether 
avoided. 

From among the testimonials which the publishers have received, they 
append the following, to show that the design of the series has been fully 
and successfully carried out : — 

Central High School, Phila., June 29, 1847. 
Gentlemen: — 

1 have been much pleased with your edition of Caesar's Gallic Wars, being part of 
Schmitz and Zumpt's classical series for schools. The work seems happily adapted 
to the wants of learners. The notes contain much valuable information, concisely 
and accurately expressed and on the points that really require elucidation, wliile at 
the same time the book is not rendered tiresome and expensive by a ns^eless array of 
mere learning. The text is one in high repute, and your reprint of it is pleasing to 
the eye. I take great pleasure in commending the publication to the attention of 
teachers. It wiU, I am persuaded, commend itself to all who srive it a fair examination. 
Very Respectfully, Your Obt. Servt., 

JOHN S. HART, 
To Messrs. Lea & Blanchard. Principal Phila. High School. 



VOIiUME SECOND, 

P. VIRGILIi MARONIS CARMINA. 

NEARLY READY. 



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